


X..<S4 





/*•< 

/•-I 


4 





































Book 



Gopight 2 ^ 

COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 











MARGERY OF QUETHER 


AND OTHER STORIES 


Works by S. Baring-Gould 

PUBLISHED IN THE 

INTERNATIONAL SERIES. 


NO, 


CTS. 

45 - 

Arminell, .... 

. 50 

19. 

John Herring, . , 

50 

22. 

Mehalah, .... 

. 50 

27. 

Pennycomequicks, The, 

50 

143 - 

Urith. 

. 50 







MARGERY OF QUETHEr'^^'’;!'’ 

AND O I'HKR STORIES 



BY 


S" BARING-GOULD 

«4 

AUTHOR OF 


MEHALAH,” “ OLD COUNTRY LIFE,” ETC. 



NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTH ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


*».- •• ^ 




T2'^ 

■ V\o^ 


Copyright, 1892, 

BY 

UNITED STATES BOOK COMPANY, 


[A/^ rights reserved.^ 


! 

» 




MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


CHAPTER I. 

This is written by my own hand, entirely unassisted. 
I am George Rosedhu, of Foggaton, in the par¬ 
ish of Lamerton, and in the county of Devon— 
whether to write myself Mister or Esquire, I do not 
know. My father was a yeoman, so was my grand¬ 
father, item my great-grandfather. But I notice that 
when anyone asks of me, a favour, or writes me a 
begging letter, he addresses me as Esquire, whereas 
he who has no expectation of getting anything out 
of me invariably styles me Mister. 1 have held my 
acres for five hundred years—that is, my family the 
Rosedhus have, in direct lineal descent, always in 
the male line, and I intend, in like manner, to hand 
it on, neither impaired nor enlarged, to my own son, 
when I get one, which I am sure of, as the Rosedhus 
always have had male issue. But what with Nihil¬ 
ism, and Communism, and Tenant-right, and Agricul¬ 
tural Holdings legislation, threatened by Radicals and 
Socialists, there is no knowing where a man with an¬ 
cestral acres stand, and, in the general topsy-turvyism 
into which we are plunging—God bless me !—I may 
be driven, heaven preserve me, to have only female 



8 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


issue. There is no knowing to what we landed pro¬ 
prietors are coming. 

Before I proceed with my story, I must apologise 
for anything that smacks of rudeness in my style. I 
do not mean to say that there is anything intrinsi¬ 
cally rude in my literary productions, but that the 
present taste is so vitiated by slipshod English and 
effeminacy of writing, that the modern reader of 
periodicals may not appreciate my composition as it 
deserves. Roast beef does not taste its best after 
Indian curry. 

My education has been thorough, not superficial. 

I was reared in none of your “Academies for Young 
Gentlemen,” but brought up on the Eton Latin Gram¬ 
mar and cane at the Tavistock Free Grammar School. 
The consequence is that what I pretend to know, I 
know. I am a practical man with a place in the 
world, and when I leave it, there will be a hole which 
will be felt, just as when a molar is removed from the 
jaw. 

There is no exaggeration in saying that my family 
is as old as the hills, for a part of my estate covers a 
side of that great hog’s-back now called Black Down, 
which lies right before my window ; and anyone 
who knows anything about the old British tongue 
will tell you that Rosedhu is the Cornish for Black 
Down. Well, that proves that we held land here be¬ 
fore ever the Saxons came and drove the British lan¬ 
guage across the Tamar. My title-deeds don't go back 
so far as that, but there are some of them which, 
though they be in Latin, I cannot decipher. The 
hills may change their names, but the Rosedhus never. 
My house is nothing to boast of. We have been yeo- 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


9 

men, not squires, and vve have never aimed at living 
like gentry. Perhaps that is why the Rosedhus are 
here still, and the other yeomen families round have 
gone scatt (I mean, gone to pieces). If the sons 
won’t look to the farm and the girls mind the dairy, 
the family cannot thrive. 

Foggaton is an ordinary farmhouse substantially 
built of volcanic stone, black, partly with age, and 
partly because of the burnt nature of the stone. The 
windows are wide, of wood, and always kept painted 
white. The roof is of slate, and grows some clumps 
of stone-crop, yellow as gold. 

Foggaton lies in a combe, that is, a hollow lap, in 
Yaffell—or as the maps call it, Heathfield. Yaffell is 
a huge elevated bank of moor to the north-west and 
west, and what is very singular about it is, that at 
the very highest point of the moor an extinct vol¬ 
canic cone protrudes, and rises to the height of about 
twelve hundred feet. This is called Brentor, and it is 
crowned with a church, the very tiniest in the world 
I should suppose, but tiny as it is it has chancel, 
nave, porch, and west tower like any Christian parish 
church. There is also a graveyard round the church. 
This occupies a little platform on the top of the moun 
tain, and there is absolutely no room there for any¬ 
thing else. To the west, the rocks are quite precipi¬ 
tous, but the peak can be ascended from the east up 
a steep grass slope strewn with pumice. The church 
is dedicated to St. Mchiael, and the story goes that, 
whilst it was being built, every night the devil re¬ 
moved as many stones as had been set on the foun¬ 
dations during the day. But the archangel was too 
much for him. He waited behind Cox Tor, and one 


10 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


night threw a great rock across and hit the Evil One 
between the horns, and gave him such a headache that 
he desisted from interference thenceforth. The rock 
is there, and the marks of the horns are distinctly 
traceable on it. I have seen them scores of times 
myself. I do not say that the story is true; but I 
do say that the marks of the horns are on the stone. 
It is said also that there is a depression caused by 
the thumb of St. Michael. I have looked at it care¬ 
fully, but I express no opinion thereon—that may 
have been caused by the weather. 

Looking up Foggaton Coombe, clothed in oak cop¬ 
pice and with a brawling stream dancing down its 
furrow, Brentor has a striking effect, soaring above 
it high into the blue air, with its little church and 
tower topping the peak. 

I am many miles from Lamerton, which is my 
parish church, and all Heathfield lies between, so, as 
divine service is performed every Sunday in the 
church of St. Michael de Rupe, I ascend the rocky 
pinnacle to worship there. 

You must understand that there is no road, not 
even a path to the top ; one scrambles up over the 
turf, in windy weather clinging to the heather bushes. 
It is a famous place for courting, that is why the 
lads and lasses are such church-going folk here¬ 
about. The boys help the girls up, and after service 
hold their hands to help them down. Then, some¬ 
times a maiden lays hold of a gorse bush in mistake 
for a bunch of heath, and gets her pretty hand full of 
prickles. When that happens, her young man makes 
her sit down beside him under a rock away from the 
wind, that is, from the descending congregation, and 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


II 


he pricks the prickles out of her rosy, palm with a pin. 
As there are thousands of prickles on a gorse bush, 
this sometimes takes a long time, and as the pin 
sometimes hurts, and the maid winces, the lad has to 
squeeze her hand very tight to hold it steady. I’ve 
known thorns drawn out with kisses. 

I always do say that parsons make a mistake when 
they build churches in the midst of the population. 
Dear, simple, conceited souls, do they really sup¬ 
pose that folks go to church to hear them preach.? 
No such thing—that is the excuse ; they go for a 
romp. Parsons should think of that, and make pro¬ 
vision accordingly, and set the sacred edifice on the 
top of moor or down, or in shady corners where 
there are long lanes well wooded. Church paths are 
always lovers’ lanes. 

When a woman gets too old for sweethearting—if 
that time ever arrives, in her own opinion—she goes 
to church for scandalmongery, and, of course, the 
farther she has to go, the more time she has for talk 
and the outpour of gossip. I know the butcher at 
Lydford kills once a week. Sunday is the character- 
killing day with us, and all our womankind are the 
butchers. 

Well!—this is all neither here nor there. I was 
writing about my house, and I have been led into a 
digression on church-going. However, it is not a 
digression either ; it may seem ^so to my readers, but 
I know what I am about, and as my troubles came of 
church-going, what I have said is not so much out of 
the way as some superficial and inconsiderate readers 
may have supposed. I return, for a bit to the de¬ 
scription of my farmhouse. As I have said once, and 


2 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


I insist on it again, Foggaton makes no pretensions 
to be other than a substantial yeoman’s residence. 
You can smell the pigs’ houses as you come near, 
and I don’t pretend that the scent arises from clem¬ 
atis or wisteria. The cowyard is at the back, and 
there is plenty of mud in the lane, and streams of 
water running down the cart ruts, and skeins of oats 
and barley straw hanging to the hollies in the hedge. 
There is no gravel drive up to the front door, but 
there is a little patch of turf before it walled off from 
the lane, with crystals of white spar ornamenting the 
top of the wall. In the wall is a gate, and an ascent 
by four granite steps to a path sanded with mundic 
gravel that leads just twelve feet six inches across the 
grass plot to the front door. This door is bolted 
above and below, and chained and doubled-locked, 
but the back door that leads from the yard into the 
kitchen is always open, and I go in and out by that. 
The front door is for ornament, not use, except on 
grand occasions. 

The rooms of Foggaton are low, and I can touch 
the ceiling easily in each with my hand ; I can touch 
that in the bedrooms with my head. Low rooms 
are warmer and more homelike than the tall rooms of 
Queen Ann’s and King George’s leigns. 

On the other side of Heathfield is Quether, a farm 
that has belonged to the Palmers pretty nigh as long 
as Foggaton has belonged to the Rosedhus. Farmer 
John Palmer is a man of some substance, one of the 
old sort of yeomen, fresh in colour, with light blue 
eyes and fair hair; he is big-made and stout. He 
is a man who knows the world and can make 
money. He has a lime-kiln as well as a farm, but 


MA R GEK Y OF Q UE THER. 


^3 

the lime-kiln is not his own ; he rents it. His daugh¬ 
ter Margaret is a very pretty girl. He has several 
sons, and a swarm of small children of no particular 
sex. They are all in petticoats. So Margaret can’t 
take much with her when she marries. Margaret 
used to go to chapel, but her religious views under¬ 
went a change since one Sunday afternoon she visited 
Brentor church. This change in her was not pro¬ 
duced by anything in the parson’s sermon, but by 
the fact that I was there, aged three and twenty, was 
good-looking, and the sole owner of Foggaton. I ac¬ 
companied her back to Quether. Since that Sunday 
she has been very regular in her devotions at St. Mi¬ 
chael de Rupe ; she. has, I understand, returned her 
missionary box to the minister of the chapel, and no 
longer collects for the conversion of the heathen. 
As for me, I became a much more regular attendant 
at church after that Sunday afternoon than I had been 
before. When the day was windy, I helped Margaret 
up the rock, and held her hand very tightly in mine, 
for had she missed her footing she might have per¬ 
ished. When the day was rainy, we shared one gig 
umbrella. When the day was windy and rainy, it 
was better still; for the gig umbrella could not be 
unfurled, so I folded my wide waterproof over us 
both. When the day was foggy, that was best of all, 
for then we lost our way in the fog, and could not 
find the church door till service was ended. On 
sunshiny days we were merry ; in rain and fog, senti¬ 
mental. 

One Sunday she and I had gone round to the west 
end of the church after service. I told her that I 
wanted to show her Kit Hill, where the Britons made 


14 


MARGERY OF QUETIIER. 


their last stand against King Athelstan and the Sax¬ 
ons ; the real reason was that there is only a narrow 
ledge between the tower and the precipice, on which 
two cannot walk abreast, but on which two can stand 
very well with their backs to the wall, and no one 
else can come within eye and ear-shot of them. 
Whilst we stood there, a sudden cloud rolled by 
beneath our feet, completely obliterating the land¬ 
scape, but we were left above the vapor, in sunlight, 
looking down, as it were, on a rushing, eddying sea 
of white foam. The effect was strange; it was as 
though we were insulated on a little rock in a vast 
ocean that had no bounds. Margaret pressed my arm 
and said, “ We two seem to be alone in a little world 
to ourselves.” 

I answered, looking at the fog, ‘ ‘ And a preciously 
dull world and dreary outlook.” 

I have not much imagination, and I did not at the 
moment take her words as an appeal for a pretty and 
lover-like reply. I missed the opportunity and it was 
gone past recall. She let go of my arm in dudgeon, 
and when I turned my head Margaret had disap¬ 
peared. With a step she had left the ledge, and a few 
paces had taken her to her father. The fog at the 
same time rose and enveloped the top of the Tor and 
the church, so that I could no longer see Margaret, 
and the possibility of overtaking her and apologis¬ 
ing was lost. 

Next Sunday she did not come to church. This 
made me very uncomfortable. 1 like to have the even 
tenor of neither my agricultural nor my matrimonial 
pursuits disturbed. 1 had been keeping company 
with Margaret Palmer for seven or eight months, and 


MARGER Y of QUETHER. , 5 

I had begun to hope that in the course of a twelve- 
month, if things progressed, I might make a declara¬ 
tion of my sentiments, and that after the lapse of 
some three or four years more we might begin to think 
of getting married. This little outburst of temper 
was distasteful to me ; I knew exactly what it meant. 
It showed an undue precipitancy, an eagerness to 
drive matters to a conclusion, which repelled me. 
My sentiments are my own, drawn from my own 
heart, as my cider is from my own apples. I will 
not allow anyone to go to the tap of the latter and 
draw off what he likes ; and I will not allow anyone 
to turn the key of my bosom and draw off the senti¬ 
ments that are therein. On the third Sunday, I did 
not go to church, but I sent my hind, and he reported 
to me that Margaret Palmer had been there. I knew 
she would be there, expecting to find me ripe and soft 
to the pitch of a declaration. By my absence I 
showed her that I could be offended as well as she. 
That next week there came a revivalist preacher to 
the chapel; he was a,black man, and went by the 
name of “ Go-on-all-fours-to-glory Jumbo.” I heard 
that Margaret Palmer had been converted by him. 
The week after there came a quack female dentist to 
Tavistock, and I went to her and had one of my back 
teeth out. Margaret Palmer learned a lesson by that. 

I let her understand that if she chose to be revived by 
Methodies, Pd have my teeth drawn by quacks. Td 
stand none of her nonsense. My plan answered. 
Margaret Palmer came round, and was as meek as a 
sheep, and as mild as buttermilk after that. Next 
Sunday I went as near a declaration as ever a man 
did without actually falling over the edge into matri- 


l6 MARGERY OF QUETHER, 

mony. Foggaton is a property of 356 acres 2 roods 
3 poles, and it won’t allow a proprietor to marry 
much under fifty ; my father did not marry till he was 
fifty-three, and my grandfather not till he was sixty. 
Young wives are expensive luxuries, and long fam¬ 
ilies ruin a small property. One son to inherit the 
estate, and a daughter to keep house for him till he 
marries, then to be pensioned off on £80 a year, that 
is the Rosedhu system. Now you can understand 
why I object to being hurried. Foggaton will not 
allow me to marry for twenty-seven years to come. 
But women are impatient cattle. They are like Dart¬ 
moor sheep; where you don’t want them to go, there 
they go ; and when you set up hurdles to keep them 
in, they take them at a leap. I’ve known these Dart- 
moors climb a pile of rocks on the top of which is 
nothing to be got, and from which it is impossible to 
descend, just because the Almighty set up those 
rocks for the sheep not to climb. To my mind, 
courting is the happiest time of life, for then the 
maiden is on her best behaviour. She knows that 
there is many a slip between the cup and the lip, and 
she regulates her conduct accordingly. I’ve heard 
that in Turkey females are real angels; they never 
nag, they never peck, they never give themselves 
airs. And the reason is that a Turkish husband can 
always turn his wife out of the house and sell her in 
the slave market. With us it is otherwise ; when a 
woman is a wife she has her husband at her feet in 
chains to trample on as she pleases. He cannot 
break away. He cannot send her off. She knows 
that, and it is more than a woman can bear to be 
placed m a position of unassailable security. As long 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


17 


as a man is courting, he holds the rod, and the woman 
is the fish hooked at the end; but when they are mar¬ 
ried the positions are reversed. 

Well, to turn to my story. We made up our 
quarrel and were like two doves. Then came the 
event I am about to relate, which disturbed our re¬ 
lations. 

It had been the custom on Christmas Eve from 
time immemorial for the sexton and two others to 
climb Brentor, and ring a peal on the three bells in 
the church tower at midnight. On a still Christmas 
night the sound of these bells is carried to a great 
distance over the moors. I daresay in ancient times 
there may have been service in the church at mid¬ 
night, but there has been none for time out of mind, 
and the custom being unmeaning would have fallen 
into disuse were it not that a benefaction is connected 
with it—a field is held by feoffees m trust to pay the 
rent to the sexton and the ringers, on condition that 
the bells are rung at midnight on Christmas Eve. Of 
late years there has been some difficulty in getting 
men together for the job. Wages are so high that 
labouring men will not turn out of a winter’s night to 
climb a tor to earn a few shillings. Besides the sex¬ 
ton has been accused of disseminating a preposterous, 
idle tale of hobgoblins and bogies to frighten others 
from assisting him, so that he may pocket the entire 
sum himself. 

Be this as it may, it is certain that on the Christmas 
Eve that followed the quarrel I have spoken of, no 
additional ringers were forthcoming. The sexton, 
who was also clerk, Solomon Davy, worked for me 
and occupied one of my cottages. I beg, parenthet- 

2 


18 MA/^ GER Y OF Q UE THER, 

ically, to observe that the cottages that belonged to 
me would do credit to any owner. My maxim is, 
look to your men and horses and cows that they be 
well fed and well housed, and they are worth the 
money. Solomon Davy was an old man. His work 
was not worth his wages, but I kept him on because 
he had been on the farm all his life, and had married 
late in life. During the afternoon of Christmas Eve, 
Solomon Davy sent for me. He was taken ill with 
rheumatism and could not leave his cottage. 

“ Eve ventured on the liberty of asking you to step 
in, sir,” said he, when I entered his door, “because 
I’ve been took across the back cruel bad, and I can’t 
crawl across the room.” 

‘ ‘ Sorry to hear it, Solomon. Who will do the 
clerking for you to-morrow.? ” 

“I'm not troubled about that, master, as Farmer 
Palmer do the responses in a big voice. That which 
vexes me is about the ringing the bells this night.” 

“It can’t be done,” said I. 

‘ ‘ But, sir, meaning no offence, it must be done or 
I don't get the money. The feoffees won’t pay a far¬ 
thing unless Christmas be rung in.” 

“You must send somebody else to do it.” 

Solomon shook his head. “Then that person 
pockets the money, and I get naught.” He remained 
silent awhile, and then added, ‘ ‘ Besides, who’d go ? ” 

“ Make it worth a man’s while, and he’ll do any¬ 
thing,” said I. 

Again he shook his head, and this time he said, 
“There’s Margery of Quether.’’ 

“What do you mean.? ” 1 asked, flushing. “What 
has Miss Palmer to do with the bells ? Oh, I under- 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


19 

stand; she likes to hear the peal, and you would not 
disappoint her.” 

Solomon looked up at me slyly. “I didn't mean 
she.” 

‘ ‘ Then who the deuce do you mean.? ” 

“ Her as never dies.” 

“ Solomon, the lumbago has got into your brains. 
1*11 tell you what I’ll do. I will ring the bells for you, 
and you shall draw the fee for having done it. That, 
I hope, will content you, my good man.” 

“ Now that be like you, master, the best and kind¬ 
est of your good old stock,” exclaimed Solomon. 
“ I never heard of a master as was of such right good 
stuff as you. You don’t turn off an old man because 
he is past work, nor grudge him a bit of best garden 
ground, took out of one of your fields, nor deny him 
skimmed milk because you want it for the pigs and 
calves, nor refuse him turnips and pertatees out of 
the fields as many as he can eat.” So he went on. 
I do not hesitate to repeat what he said, because he 
confined himself strictly within the bounds of truth. 
I flatter myself I always have been a good master, and 
just, even generous, to my men. I have been more, 
I have been considerate and kind. Lights were not 
made to be put under bushels, and I am not one of 
those who would distort or suppress the truth, even 
when it concerns myself. I know my own merits, 
and as for my faults, if I light on any at any time, I 
shall not scruple to publish them. 

The old sexton jumped at my offer—I mean meta¬ 
phorically, for his lumbago would not allow him to 
jump literally. I had made the offer out of considera¬ 
tion for him, but without considering myself, and I 


20 


MARGERY OF Q[/ETHER. 


repented having made it almost as soon as the words 
had left my lips. However, I am a man of my word, 
and when I say a thing I stick to it. 

‘ ‘ Where is the key ? ” I asked. 

“Her be hanging upon thicky (that) nail behind 
the door, answered the old man. 

As I took down the great church key, Solomon 
said, in a hesitating, timid voice. “If you should 
chance to meet wi’ Margery o’ Quether, you won’t 
mind.” 

“ I do not in the least expect to see her,” I said, 
getting red, and hot, and annoyed. 

“No—meb-be not, but her has been seen afore on 
Christmas Eve.” 

‘ ‘ Margaret on the tor at midnight! ” I exclaimed ; 
then, highly incensed at the idea of the old man pok¬ 
ing fun at me, and even alluding to my weakness 
for Margaret Palmer—love is a weakness—I said 
testily, as I walked out swinging the key on my fore¬ 
finger, “Solomon, I object to Miss Palmer’s name 
being brought in in this flippant and impertinent man¬ 
ner. What with the Gladstone-Chamberlain general 
topsy-turvyism of the Government, the working 
classes are forgetting the respect due to their super¬ 
iors, and allow themselves liberties of speech which 
their forefathers would have turned green to think of.” 

If I was regular in my devotions every Lord’s Day, 
a laboring man in one’s employ earning thirteen shil¬ 
lings a week had no right to suppose that I did not 
ascend Brentor from the purest motives of personal 
piety. It is the duty of one in his position to think 
so. His insolence jarred my feelings, and I already 
regretted the offer I had made. It is a mistake to be 


MAY OF QUE THEE. 2 1 

good-natured. It is lowering in the eyes of inferiors ; 
it is taken for weakness. The man who is universally 
respected, and obtains ready attention and exact 
obedience, is he who cares for nobody but himself; 
is loud, exacting, and self-asserting. To be good- 
natured involves a man in endless troubles. I had 
undertaken to ring the bells at midnight in midwinter 
in the windiest, most elevated steeple in England ; 
I had to ascend a giddy peak on which one false step 
would precipitate me over the rocks, and dash every 
bone in my body to pieces. I am not one to shrink 
from danger, or to shirk a responsibility, freely, if in¬ 
considerately undertaken. I have already said that I 
would frankly admit my faults when I noticed them ; 
and now the opportunity arises. I admit without 
scruple that I am too prone to do kind acts. This is 
a fault. A man ought to consider himself. Charity 
begins at home. In this instance I did not think of 
myself, of the discomfort and danger involved in 
ascending Brentor at midnight. 

I took a stiff glass of hot rum and water about 
half-past ten or a quarter to eleven, and then turned 
out. 

There was no snow on the ground; we are not 
likely to have seasonable weather so long as this 
Gladstone-Chamberlain-Radical topsy-turvy Govern¬ 
ment remain in power. Our sheep get cawed with 
the wet, the potatoes get the disease, the bullocks get 
foot-and-mouth complaint, and the rain won’t let us 
farmers get in our harvest. If only we had Beacons- 
field back ! But there, politics have nothing to do 
with my story. 


22 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


The evening was not cold, it was raw, and the 
night was black as pitch. 'I had a lanthorn with:me 
(I spell the substantive advisedly in the old way, 
lanthorn and not lantern, for mine had horn, not glass,- 
sides). 1 knew my road perfectly. The lane is 
stony, wet, and overhung. Stony it must be, for it 
is worn down to the rock, and the rock breaks up 
as it likes and stones itself, just as the coats of the 
stomach renew themselves. Wet it is, because it 
serves as main drain to the fields on either side. 
Overhung it is, because trees grow on either side. 
If the trees were not there, it would not be over¬ 
hung. You understand me. I like to be explicit. 
Some intelligences are not satisfied with a hint, every¬ 
thing must be described and explained to them to the 
minutest particular. 

By the lanthorn light I could see the beautiful ferns 
and mosses in the hedge, and the water oozing out of 
the sides, and the dribble that ran down the centre 
of the lane and then spread all over it, then accumu¬ 
lated on one side, and then took a fancy to run over 
to the other side. I notice that a stream in going 
down the hill zigzags just as a horse does in ascend¬ 
ing a hill, and as a woman does in aiming at anything. 
I'he road rises steeply from my backyard gate to the 
church porch. When I say road, I mean way. For 
after one comes out on the moor, there is not even 
a track. 

I knew my direction well enough, so I went straight 
over the heath to the old volcano, and as I ascended 
the peak I thought to myself, if any traveller were on 
Heathfield to-night, what a tale he would make up of 
the Jack-oManthorn seen dancing in and out among 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


n 

the rocks, and winding its way up the height, till at 
last it hopped in at the church door of St. Michael on 
the rock, and then a faint glimmer was visible issuing 
from all its windows. Probably he would suspect 
some witches’ frolic was going on there such as Tam 
o’ Shanter saw on All Hallowe’en, when— 

“Kirk Alloway seem’d in ableeze,” 

though the “bleeze” could not be bright that issued 
from my tallow candle in a lanthorn. 

The sky was overcast. Not a star was visible; 
only in the S. W. was a little faint light, and a thread 
of it ran round the horizon. The simile is not poet¬ 
ical, but it is to the purpose, when I say that the earth 
seemed under a dish-cover which didn’t quite fit. 

I reached the church in safety, dark as the night 
was ; the few gravestones lit up with a ghastly smile 
as the lanthorn and I went by them in the little yard. 

I set down the dickering article on the stone seat in 
the porch, turned the key, resumed my lanthorn and 
went into the tower. 

The church was not in first-rate repair. I believe 
the Duke of Bedford, who owns all Heafhfield, did 
intend to do something to the church. He brought 
an architect there, and the architect said he must pull 
down the old church that dates from the thirteenth 
century, and build a sort of Norman Gothic cathedral 
in its place. You see the architect thought only of 
the duke’s pocket from which to draw ; he gets five 
per cent on the outlay. But when the parson heard 
that, and I too, being churchwarden, we put our foot 
down and said. No! We loved the little old church; 


24 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


it was seen by Drake and Raleigh as they sailed into 
Plymouth Sound, just the same as we see it to-day, 
and we would not have a stone changed of the car¬ 
case. They might do what they liked with the vitals 
inside, that we conceded. Since that day we have 
heard nothing more of the restoration of Brentor 
church. Consequently, the sacred edifice has been 
getting more and more out of repair. 

The rain had driven for centuries through the joints 
of the masonry, even through the stone itself, and 
had streamed down inside, rotting the joists of the 
bell-chamber where they rested in the wall. I don’t 
blame the builders, they did their best. The walls 
are thick, but there is no stone in the country that is 
impervious to a south-western wind charged with 
rain. Granite is worst of all. You might as well 
build of sponge. Brentor Church is built of the stone 
of the hill on which it stands, a sort of pumice, full of 
holes, and therefore by nature spongy. It holds the 
wet, and weeps it out at every change of weather. 
Now the belfry joists had given way, rotted right off, 
and had brought the planking down with them, and 
lay a wreck at the bottom of the tower. By day, I 
have no doubt, any one looking up would see the 
three bells, and the holes in the lead roof above them. 
It was difficult for me to get at the ropes, so encum¬ 
bered was the floor with fallen beams and boards that 
smelt of mildew and death. I fancy the floor had 
given way since last Sunday, and that was why the 
litter lay there. Some of the sexton’s tools had been 
knocked over by the fallen beams. He wants strong 
tools, for the graves have to be hewn in the rock. 
After I had removed some of the rotten timber, I 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


25 

made myself space, and stood in a pool of coffee- 
coloured water that had leaked from the roof, and 
drained from the sodden joists, and then I began to 
ring the bells. As I rang I looked round now and 
then. It was, of course, possible, though hardly prob¬ 
able, that the blacksmith or Luke Petherick might 
come up and take a turn at the ropes. I did not 
expect anyone, but I thought one mighfi:omQ ; and I 
almost wished I had knocked the blacksmith up on 
my way, and asked him as a personal favour to 
join me. He couldn’t have refused, for he does all 
my blacksmithing for me. But it might have seemed 
as if I were afraid to go alone, and it would have de¬ 
prived Solomon of half the ringer’s fee. Looked at 
in another light, it would not have done, for one in 
my position is hardly the person to be seen ringing a 
church bell, and to be known to have done it out of 
good-nature. 

I soon found that, for one unaccustomed to bell- 
ringing, the exertion was great; it brought into play 
muscles not usually exercised, and I began to feel the 
strain. I paused and wiped my forehead. My hands 
were getting galled. I did not moisten them in the 
customary way, which is vulgar ; but I dipped my 
palms in the coffee-coloured solution on the pavement 
at my feet. I had hitherto rung the “ cock,” as Solo¬ 
mon designates one old heavy bell that has a curious 
Latin inscription on it, which begins, ''Gallus vocor.” 
Now, as I rose from moistening my palms, I looked 
at the rope of the tenor bell, intending to pull that 
next. As I did so, I noticed something dark, like a 
bail of dirty cobwebs, hanging to the cord, rather 
high up. I elevated my lanthorn to see what it was, 


26 


MARGER Y OF QUETHER. 


but the light afforded by the tallow dip was not suffi¬ 
cient to enable me to distinguish the outline of the 
object. I supposed it might be a great mass of filthy 
cobweb, or perhaps a piece of broken flooring which 
had remained attached to the rope, caught when the 
rest fell away. I considered that if I pulled the rope, 
I should probably bring the thing—whatever it was— 
down on my head. You will understand that my 
desisting from touching that cord was prompted by 
the wisest discretion, not by inane fear. So I rang 
the treble bell, and ever and anon cast up my eye at 
the remarkable mass above. 

Presently, I desisted from ringing altogether. I 
thought that the object was descending the rope 
slowly. I say I thought so, I did think so at first, 
but very soon I was certain of it. So certain was I, 
that I stepped back, and in so doing fell over a balk. 
When -I had picked myself up the thing had reached 
the bottom. I should have liked to leave the church, 
but to do this I must step past this creature ; I must 
do more ; it was in the only clear space between me 
and the tower arch, so that to get out I must lift it 
from its place to make a passage for myself, and this 
I did not feel inclined to do. I never have believed 
in the supernatural. I do not believe in it now. 
Ghosts, goblins, and pixies are the creations of fevered 
imaginations and illiterate ignorance. It puts me 
out of patience to hear people, who ought to know 
better, speak of such things. I did not fora moment, 
therefore, suppose that the object before me was a 
denizen of another world. As far as I can recollect 
and analyse my sensations at the time, I should say 
that blank amazement prevailed, attended by a dom- 


MA/^ GER y OF QUE THER, 2 7 

inating desire to be outside the church and careering 
down the flank of the hill in the direction of Fogga- 
ton. I had no theory as to what the thing was; 
indeed the inclination to theorise was far from me. 
The creature I could now see had a human form. It 
was of the size of a three months old baby. I have 
had no experience in babies myself, and am no judge 
of ages, so that when I say three months I do not 
wish to be tied down to that period exactly. In 
colour the object was brown, as if it had been steeped 
in peat water for a century, and in texture leathery. 
It scrambled, much as I have seen a bat scramble, 
out of the puddle on the pavement to the heap of 
broken timber, and worked its way with its little 
brown hands and long claws up a rafter, and seated 
itself thereon, holding fast by a hand on each side of 
what I suppose was the body, and then blinked, much 
in the same way as a monkey blinks, drawing a 
skin over the eyes different in colour from the skin of 
the face. 

“I be JNIargery Palmer of Quether,'’ it said in 
strange, far-off, mumbling words. “ I couldn’t bide 
up yonder no longer ; the wood be that rotten, it is 
all giving away, and I be afeared I may fall and 
break my bones. That ’ud be a gashly state o’ 
things, my dear, to hev’ to bide up there year after 
year with a body o’ bones all scattered abroad (broken 
to pieces), and never no chance of the bones healing.” 

‘‘Who are youI asked, perhaps not as loudly or 
with as firm a voice as that in which I usually accost 
a stranger. The creature did not hear me. It went 
on, however, in its mumbling voice, and with a queru¬ 
lous intonation. “ I be Margery Palmer of Quether. 


28 


MARGERY OF QUETI/FR, 


I reckon there be some one before me, but, my dear, I 
cannot see you, and if you speak I cannot hear you. 
I be deaf as a post, and IVe the eyes white wi’ 
caterick. ” 

“Are you a spirit ? ’’ I inquired. She did not hear 
me ; so, waxing bolder, I put my hands to my mouth 
and shouted, as through a speaking trumpet, “Are 
you a spirit ? '' 

“Spirit—spirit.? ” she echoed. “Lauk a mussy ! 
I wish I was ! Spirit I No such luck corned to me 
yet. If I was Td be thankful ! Ah ! Wishes don’t 
fulfil themselves like as prayers do.” 

“ How came you here .? ” I called. 

“ Hear ! ” she repeated. “ I can’t hear. I be got 
too old for that, I reckon. I be Margery Palmer o’ 
Quether. ” 

“Impossible,” I said. Were my senses taking 
leave of me .? “ This is a sheer impossibility.” She 

did not hear my protest, but went mumbling on. “I 
lives up yonder among the bells. I’ve lived there 
these hundreds of years. I reckoned it were the 
safest place I could be in. I’d not ha’ come down 
now, but that I were fear’d the bells would give way 
and all fall together, and my bones would ha’ broke. 
It ’ud be a gashly thing to live on for hundreds o’ 
years wi’ broked arms and- legs, and mebbe also a 
broked neck, so that the head hung down behind, and 
with no power to move it, not a bit and crumb. 
There ain’t no healing power in my bones now: they 
be as ancient as they in the graves, and no more 
power of joining in them than the dead and moulder¬ 
ing bones hev.” 

I held up the lanthorn to inspect this curious crea- 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


29 

ture squatted before me on a beam. It was, as I 
said, of the size of a baby; but otherwise it was a 
grown woman very aged and withered. The face 
was not merely wizen : it was dried up to leather, 
quite tanned brown, the colour of the oak beams ; 
the hands and arms were shriveled and like those 
of a bat. There was actually no flesh on them, they 
were simply dry tanned skin about bone. The gar¬ 
ments seemed to have been tanned like the hide by 
the liquor distilling from the oak. The eyes were 
blear. 

“ I can't see, and I can't hear," she went on, “ex¬ 
cept just a little scrap o'light which I take to be a 
link. I gets blinder and ever blinder, till in time I 
shall look into the sun and see only blackness and 
darkness for ever. I gets deafer and deafer, but I 
can hear the bells still. I can also feel a little with 
my skin, but nOt much. I've one tooth remains in 
my head, and I hang on by that. I drive it into the 
oak beam, and cling around the beam wi' my arms, 
and strike my nails in too, and so I hold fast. But 
I knowed very well that the wood were rotten ; I 
knowed it by a sort of instink, and so I’ve a-comed 
down to-day. I reckon my hair be all failed off 
now : I can't tell by the feel, my hands be that numb 
wi' clinging that the feeling be most gone from them. 
But you can see for yourself. She put her hand to 
her head and thrust back a leathery hood that had 
covered it. The little skull was bald. I opened the 
door of my lanthorn and took out the candle to in¬ 
spect her better. The head was as if cut out of a 
thornstick. Only at the back at the junction with 
the neck was a little frizzle of ragged white hair. I 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


30 

observed as she moved that her neck creased like old 
hide that threatened to crack at the creases. The 
flexibility was gone from it. ‘ ‘ Hold the candle before 
my eyes/’she said ; “I like the light. I can feel it 
shining through my dull eyes down into my stomick. 
What be your name, now ? ” 

“ George Rosedhu.” I yelled my name into her 
ear. 

‘ ‘ Ah, George ! George ! ” exclaimed old Margery, 
“you put off and off too long. You should have 
married when the fancy first took you. Now it be 
too late; we be shrumped up (dried up) like old 
apples. ” 

What could this extraordinary creature mean } 

“ Ah, George ! George ! ” she went on, “that were 
a cruel, unkind act of yours, keeping company with 
me so long, and then giving me the slip after all. 
Do you mind how we used to meet here of Sundays, 
and how on the windy days you helped me up the 
rock, and on windy and rainy days you wrapped 
your cloak round the both of us, and how, when the 
days were foggy, we used to lose our way in the mist, 
and never were able to find the church door till the 
service were over } And do you recall how one day 
you took me round to the west end of the church, 
after service, where we could stand at the edge of 
the rock, wi’ our backs to the tower, and you said 

you wanted to point out Kit Hill to me-” 

I sprang forward and put my hand over her 
mouth. 

“ Good heavens ! ” I exclaimed. “ Will you drive 
me mad } What do you mean } Who are you .? ”, 
She went on, when I withdrew my hand, “Ah, 



MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


31 

George, George, you knew there was not much to be 
got with me. There were my brothers and a swarm 
of little ones coming on, and so you left me out in 
the cold, and took up with Mary Cake, of Wring- 
worthy, who was twenty years older than me. You 
said I were too young; and now Mary Cake, that be¬ 
came Mary Rosedhu be dead and mouldered these 
hundreds of years, and I—I be alive and old enough 
even for a Rosedhu.” 

Then the old creature began to laugh, but stopped 
with a short scream. “I must not do it. I dare not 
laugh. I be too old, and I shall crack my sides and 
tear my skin. Then what is cracked bides cracked, 
and what is tore bides tore.” 

What did the creature mean by her allusion to 
Mary Cake.? That was my great, great—I’m afraid to 
say how many times removed—grandmother. She 
died about two hundred years ago. She brought an 
addition to the property of fifty-three acres, which I 
now possess. I have the marriage settlements in the 
iron deeds-chest under my bed, the date 1605. 

“Well, well,” the little old woman went on, “we 
all make mistakes. Life is but a string of them. 
Coming into the world is the first; courting, marry¬ 
ing, everything in sucession is a mistake. You, 
George, made a mistake in taking Mary Cake instead 
of me. Her led you a cruel, sour life to my thinking. 
Her had a vixenish temper as would worry any man, 
out of conceit with life. I, on the other hand, 
was all lightsomeness and fun. You knew that; 
but what cared you for a pretty face and a sunny 
temper alongside of a few acres of moorland? You 
Rosedhus are a calkelating family, and you reckon 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


32 

up everything wi' a bit o’ chalk on the table. I 
hadn’t the land that Mary brought, but I’d youth and 
energy and a cheerful disposition. But, Rosedhus, 
you are all afraid of long families, and are a grasping 
and a keeping set. You always marry late in life, 
and oldish women, lest a lot of children should eat 
the property as mice eat cheese. It be a mistake, a 
gashly error. But there, now, I won’t aggravate 
you. Now tell me this : How come you alive at 
this time? 1 thought you’d been dead these two 
hundred and fifty years. Can’t you find* your rest no 
more nor I? Did you also pray that you might 
never die ? ” 

I could not answer. I have no imagination, and I 
was unable to follow her, mixing up the past and the 
present in such an unaccountable manner. As far as 
I could understand, ehe confused me with a remote 
ancestor of the same name who died in 1623. That 
was the George Rosedhu who married Mary Cake, of 
Wringworthy, in 1605. 

“ I made my mistake when 1 prayed for life, ” said 
the old woman. “ 1 was so joyous and fond of life 
and full of giddiness that I used to pray every Sunday 
when I came to church, and every evening when I 
said my Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, that I might 
never die. I were also mortal afraid of death. The 
graves here be digged out of the living stone, and be 
full of water afore the coffins be splashed into them, 
and the corpses don’t moulder; they sop away and 
go off the bones just as if they was boiled to rags. 
That terrified me, so 1 always prayed for one only 
thing, that I might never die, and my prayer aev 
been heard and answered. I cannot die, but I can 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


33 


grow older and more decrepit and dried, for I never 
considered to pray that I might always bide young. 
So you see, even when we pray, we make mistakes. 
Now I cannot die. I get older and older, andshrump 
(wither) up more and more, and get drier, and 
blinder, and deafer. I can no longer taste, and I 
cannot smell, and I can hardly feel. I have no pleas¬ 
ure in life at all now, and the only feeling in me is 
fear—fear lest I should get broke or tore, for I be 
past mending; if I be broke or tore I must so bide to 
the end of time. On a very hot day, when the sun 
shines, I seem to have a sort o’ a sense of warmth, 
and the frost must cake me up in ice before I knows 
I’m cold. I reckon in another hundred years my 
tongue will have dried up, and then I sha’n’t be able 
to talk no more; but that is the last organ to go in a 
woman, as her temper is the first; her mind may go, 
her teeth may go, her sight may go, her hearing may 
go—but her tongue dies. hard. In another hundred 
years I shall not be able to feel the streak of mid¬ 
summer sun that falls on my back, nor the winter 
icicle that hangs from my nose. I sit bunched up on 
a beam above the bells, and hold on with a tooth 
drove fast into the wood right home to the gum, and 
my nails hev grown till they go round the beam I 
clutch. The dry rot has got into the wood, and it be 
turned to powder, so that the crust has given way 
and I’ve sunk into the dust and mildew. You must 
put me away where I can be safe for another two or 
three hundred years, out o’ the way of dogs, and rats, 
and boys. Dogs would tear my skin, and rats gnaw 
holes in me, and boys pelt me wi’ stones and break 
my bones. What is broke is broke, and what is tore 
3 


MARGERY OF QtJETHER. 


34 

is tore—I be past all healing. I were put up in the 
belfry above the bells as the place where 1 might be 
safest, but now that the rafters and joists be rotten 
and falling about me, it b aint safe no more.” 

She ceased, and sat blinking at me. d'he skin of 
her eyelids was the only part of her that retained any 
flexibility, and any likeness to human skin in colour 
and texture. The eyelashes were white like frost 
needles. I was touched with compassion. As I have 
already said, I have no intention of disguising or 
hiding my faults, and I frankly confess that a too 
great readiness to be moved by a tale or stirred by 
a spectacle appealing to human sympathy is one of 
my worst faults. I fear it is ineradicably ingrained 
m my constitution ; I was born with this just as 
some unfortunates come into the world with the 
germs of scrofula in their blood and tubercles in their 
lungs. I remembered now to have heard, when a 
boy, of a certain girl who was said to have been so 
much in love with life that she had prayed she might 
never die, and who, accordingly, was doomed do 
live forever; but I thought that she raced on stormy 
nights with a white owl hooting before her over the 
moors in the train of the Black Hunter and the Wisht 
Hounds. I know my old nurse had told me some 
such a tale to draw a moral from it of content with 
what Providence disposes; but it was news to me 
that this Undying One had been put away to wither 
up among the bells of Brentor Church. What a 
wretched existence this poor creature had dragged 
on ! My ancestor, who had flirted with her, and 
then jilted her, had lived over two hundred years ago, 
and she would be alive, drier and more wretched 


MARGERY OF QtJETHER. 


35 

two hundred years hence, when Margaret and I are 
fallen to dust, and our lineal descendant in the male 
line is reigning at Foggaton. My kindly disposi¬ 
tion was touched—my heart softened. In a sudden 
access of pity, I put my arms round the poor old 
creature, she was as light as a doll, and crooking 
my finger through the ring of the lanthorn, I said, 
“I will carry you home, old Margery ! You shall 
feel a Christmas fire, and taste Christmas beef and 
plum-pudding.” 

She did not understand. I do not think she heard 
me, but she laid hold of me tenaciously, as she had 
laid hold of the beam on which she had crouched 
for two centuries : she drove her single tooth through 
my coat and waistcoat, even cutting my skin, and 
her bat-like hands and claws clutched me, the nails 
going into me like knife-blades. I left the church 
with her, and carried her home; that is to say, she 
adhered to me so tenaciously—I might say voraciously 
— that I had no occasion to use my arms for her 
support; she was like a knapsack slung on the 
wrong way, and quite as securely fastened—faster, 
for a knapsack will oscillate, but old Margery stuck 
to me as tight as a tick on a dog. 

When I got home I said, “Now, old Margery, 
shake yourself off and sit by the brave big fire, and 
ril give you something warm to drink that will cheer 
the cockles of your leathery heart.” But not a bit 
would she budge. I shouted into her ear, but she 
could or would not hear. Her tooth, which was 
driven into my chest like the proboscis of a mosquito, 
held her fast, and her hands were no more to be un¬ 
locked from my arms than the laces of old ivy from 


36 MARGERY OF QUETHER. 

an oak. There was nothing for it but for me to sit 
down in my arm-chair nursing her. The situation 
was almost grotesque; it was altogether undignified. 
So I sat on, occasionally expostulating, and always 
in vain : and I thought I should have next morning 
to get a man with a knife to slit up my coat and 
waistcoat behind so as to let the old creature slip off 
with the garments. But I was saved this annoyance 
by her tooth gradually being withdrawn and her 
fingers relaxing. She fell off, and dropped on my 
knees, and lay there like a sleeping infant after its 
meal. 

I threw a bunch of gorse on the fire, and it roared 
up the chimney in a sheet of golden flame, filling the 
little parlour with light. I was able now to study the 
face of the little creature on my lap, entirely at my 
ease. It struck me now that old Margery looked 
younger than I had taken her to be when I saw her 
in the belfry. She was a very old woman, indeed, 
still, but there was a human-like moisture on the 
leathery skin, which also looked less liable to part at 
the folds, and there was even a rosy tinge on the lips. 

I suppose that from holding her so long I was some¬ 
what more able to appreciate her weight. It was 
not that of a doll stuffed with bran, but of a baby 
with milk and flesh and blood in it adapted to its 
age. I thought her also rather larger than I had at 
first supposed, but that may be because she was now 
asleep on my knees, and there is a gain of an inch 
or two in repose, owing to muscular relaxation. 

I put her down very gently on my sofa, and set a 
chair against the side, lest she should roll off on the 
floor ; then I went in quest of a clothes basket, which 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


37 


I filled with soft pillows. This I set in the ingle 
nook, and laid old Margery in the maund. I covered 
her over with an eider-down quilt taken from my own 
bed, and she seemed very cosy in the extemporised 
cradle. I did more. I got a Florence flask that had 
contained sweet oil, and rinsed it well out with a 
strong solution of soda. When it was quite clean, I 
filled it with hot strong rum and sugar and water. I 
wished I could find a flexible india-rubber tube, but 
I was unprovided with such things. There had been 
no call for them hitherto, in my house—Hold ! there 
was, though ! I recollected that one of the cows after 
calving had died of milk-fever, and the calf had been 
brought up by hand. 1 remembered a vulcanised 
india-rubber contrivance that had been tried but had 
not answered, as the calf disliked the taste of the sul¬ 
phur ; I now found this, and with some little ingenu¬ 
ity adapted it to the Florence flask, and then put into 
the basket beside Margery. I put my finger into 
her mouth first to encourage her, but she only played 
with it, and then I inserted between her almost tooth¬ 
less gums the vulcanised india-rubber contrivance—I 
forget its proper name. I thought it would keep her 
quiet, but she dragged so hard at it that the tube came 
out, and all the rum and water ran among the pillows. 
So I had to take her out again, and dry the cushions 
before the fire, and make up the bassinet with fresh 
pillows. Poor little thing, she slept through it all 
like an angel. 

All this took me a long time, and gave me great 
exertion : it called into requisition faculties of the 
mind and heart that had not been previously exercised. 
I was very tired; I sat back in my chair and fell 


MARGERY OF QUETHER 


38 

asleep. I did not dare to go to bed lest old Margery 
should wake and want me. When I opened my eyes 
it was Christmas Day. The clerk was ill, I was 
churchwarden, and must be at St. Michael de Rupe 
on that sacred festival to give the good day and the best 
wishes of the season to all my neighbours—sweet, 
blooming Margaret Palmer of Quether included. I 
went upstairs and dressed myself in my Sunday suit, 
and a blue neckcloth, and I put on my cairngorm pin 
with a terrier’s head in it, put some pomatum on my 
hair—that I always do on Sunday the last thing be¬ 
fore going to church—and before I left I drew down 
the coverlets and looked at old Margery. 

She was sleeping still—bless her !—with her old 
brown thumb in her mouth. I was uneasy because 
the nail was so long, I thought it might scratch her 
palate or irritate the uvula, so I got a pair of scissors 
and cut it. I felt strangely moved with pity, and 
with that pity there awoke in me a sort of sense of 
personal property in old Margery. Also, I presume, 
because of that, I was aware of some pride in her. 
I knew that she was wizen and old and hideous, and 
I knew also, that if any woman had come into my 
house with her baby in her arms and had asked me 
to hdmire it, and then had looked disparagingly at 
Margery, I should have hated that woman ever after. 
As it was, that day a child was christened in the 
church. I looked at its soft pink skin, and went 
away from the sacred edifice with envy and anger 
rankling in my heart. 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


39 


CHAPTER II. 

I LEFT Foggaton that morning with great reluctance, 
and all the time of divine service I was thinking far 
more of old Margery than of young Margaret, as I 
ought—and I do not mind confessing my fault open¬ 
ly. My seat is a little forward of the Quether pew 
on the other side. Usually, 'i/hen standing for the 
psalms and hymns, I stand sideways, that the light 
may fall on my book, and I may look over the top at 
Margaret, who does the same ; but as she is on the 
other side and the window opposite mine, she turns 
towards me that she may get the light on her print, 
and so our eyes are always meeting. When the par¬ 
son is praying to us, I lean forward with my head on 
the book-board, and let my eyes go diagonally back¬ 
ward ; Margaret leans her head in an opposite 
fashion, and so her eyes go diagonally forward, 
and our eyes are always meeting in the prayers, 
as in the psalms. During the sermon I am obliged 
to turn round on my seat, as I am hard of hearing 
in my right ear, owing to a cricket ball having hit it 
when I was at Tavistock Grammar School. Marga¬ 
ret always somehow has her bonnet string over her 
left ear, so she is forced to sit roundabout on her 
seat and expose the hearing ear to the preacher, and 
so it always comes about that during the sjermon, our 
eyes are meeting. This Christmas Day it was other 


40 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


with me ; I could think of nothing but my poor little 
old Margery in her bassinet by the fire, and I kept 
on wondering whether she would wake up in my 
absence and fret for want of me. Then I had all 
through the sermon a pricking feeling in my chest— 
I suppose where her teeth and nails had held so 
tight—and I was restless and uncomfortable to be 
back at Foggaton. 

After service, as I was shaking hands all round, 
feeling eager to get it over and be off. Farmer Palmer 
said to me, “ Come home to Quether with us, Rosedhu, 
and eat your Christmas dinner there. We are old 
friends and hope to be closer friends in time than we 
are now. I don’t like, nor does Margaret here, to 
think of you sitting lonely down to your meal on 
Christmas Day. There is a knife and fork laid ready 
for you, and I will take no refusal.” 

I made a lame sort of excuse. I said I was unwell. 

“ That is true enough,” said Palmer; “ you don’t 
look yourself at all to-day, and Margaret is uneasy 
about you. Your face is white, your hand shakes, 
and you look older by some years than when I last 
saw you. When was that ? ” 

“ Sunday, father,” said Margaret with a sigh. 

I assured them that I was too indisposed to accept 
their kind invitation, and I saw that they believed me. 
Margaret s brown eyes were fixed anxiously and 
intently on me. I had been up all night, and much 
worried, that was why I looked older and unwell, but 
I only said by way of explanation to Palmer, that 
I had something “on the nerve,” which covers all 
kinds of ailments. 

As I walked home every person 1 passed and spoke 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


41 


to said, “ How oldened you are ! ” or ‘‘ How ill you 
look !or “ Why, surely that baint you, Mr. George, 
looking nigher forty than twenty. ” 

I wish Mr. Palmer would not try to thrust Margaret 
on me. Margaret invites me to dinner. Margaret is 
concerned at my looks. Margaret remembers when 
last we met. That is all hyperbole and figure and 
flower of speech, and means in plain English, I want 
you to take my eldest daughter off my hands, but I 
am not going to give more than a trifle with her. 

I never was more pleased than on this occasion 
when I got home again. I unlocked my parlour 
door, and ran in and up to the clothes’ basket, and 
cried in a sort of fond foolish rapture, “ Bless it! bless 
it! O my Beauty ! ” 

The little old woman opened her eyes—they were 
not clouded with cataract ; that must have been a 
fancy of mine before : she saw me and smiled, and 
made a sort of crowing noise in her throat. I stooped 
over to kiss her, when—click ! in an instant she had 
fastened herself on me, and driven her tooth into my 
chest, and grabbed me with her hands, so that I was 
held as in a vice. To wrench her off would have been 
impossible. I believe if torn away the hands would 
have held to me still, and the arms come off at the 
wrists. I know that when a ferret fastens on a rabbit 
you may kill the beast before he will let go, unless you 
nip his hind foot; then he. opens his mouth to squeal, 
and loosens his grip to defend himself. I did not 
think of this at the time, or I might have called in some¬ 
one to pinch Margery’s foot; but I doubt, even if I had 
remembered this, whether I should have had recourse 
to this expedient. I did not care to have my sit- 


42 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


uation discussed; moreover, I was conscious of a 
soothing sensation all the time Margery was fast. 
Besides, I knew by this time that when the little old 
woman had had enough she would drop off, just as 
a leech does when full. I would not have you sup¬ 
pose that Margery was sucking my blood. Nothing 
of the sort; that is, not grossly in the manner of a 
leech. But she really did, in some marvellous man¬ 
ner, to me quite inexplicable, extract life and health, 
the blood from my veins and the marrow from my 
bones, and assimilate them herself. 

Presently she fell off, as I knew she would when 
satisfied, and lay in my lap, across my knees. She 
looked up at me with a smile that had something 
really pleasant in it. She was positively taller, her 
skin fresher, her eye clearer than before ; her eye¬ 
lashes were grey, not snowy ; and there was actually 
a down of grey hairs covering her poll, like the 
feathers on a cockatoo. I wrapped a blanket round 
her, and was about to replace her in the basket, when 
I found, to my surprise, that it would cramp her 
limbs ; she could not kick out in it. So I got a drawer 
out of my bureau, fitted it up with pillows, and laid 
her in that. 

I really do think there is something taking about 
her expression. When you consider her age, she 
gave wonderfully little trouble. At first it was strange 
to me to have to do with this sort of little creature— 
it was my first and only—but I saw that I should 
soon get used to it. In the afternoon I employed 
myself in making a pair of rockers, which I adjusted 
to the drawer, and by this means converted it into a 
very tolerable cradle. I am handy at carpentering. 


MARGER Y OF QUETHER. 


43 

Indeed there are not many things which I cannot do 
when put to it. When the emergency arose, as the 
reader will see, I became really a superior nurse, 
without any training or experience. Indeed, I feel 
confident that in the event of this Radical Gladstone- 
Chamberlain Government altering the land laws, and 
robbing me of Foggaton, I could always earn my 
living as a nurse ; I could take a baby from the month, 
if not earlier, or a person of advanced age lapsed into 
second childhood. Never before have I taken in hand 
the tools of literature, and yet, I venture to say that 
—well! there are idiots in the world who don’t know 
the qualities of a cow, and to whom a sample of 
wheat is submitted in vain. Such persons are wel¬ 
come to form what opinion they like of my literary 
style. Their opinion is of no value whatever to me. 
There is no veneer in my work, it is sterling. There 
is no padding, as it is called ; my literary execution 
is substantial and thorough as were the rockers I put 
on thicky (I mean, that there) cradle. The rockers 
were not put on many days before they were needed. 
Old Margery became very restless at night, and she 
would not let me be long out of the house by day. 
She was cutting her teeth. The back teeth are terribly 
trying to babies—they have fits sometimes and big 
heads and water on the brain, all through the molars. 
If it be so with an infant of a few months, just con¬ 
sider what it must be with an old woman in her three- 
hundreth year, or thereabouts! I bore with her 
very patiently, but broken rest is trying to a man. 
Besides, about the same time I suffered badly in 
my jaws, for my teeth, which were formerly per¬ 
fectly sound, began to decay, break off, and fall out 


44 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


I may say, approximately, that as Margery cut a 
tooth I lost one ; also that, as her hair grew and dark¬ 
ened, mine came out or turned grey. Moreover, as 
her eye cleared, mine became dim, and as her spirits 
rose, mine became despondent. 

In this way, weeks, and even months passed. It 
really was a pretty sight to see the havoc of ages 
repaired in the person of Margery ; the sight would 
have been one of unalloyed delight, had not the re¬ 
covery been effected at my expense. The colour 
came back into her cheek as it left my once so florid 
complexion ; she filled out as I shrivelled up, she grew 
tall as I collapsed ; the drawer would now no longer 
contain her, and a bed was made for her by the fire 
in the parlor. I noticed a gradual change in the 
tenor of her talk, as she grew younger. At first she 
could think and speak of nothing but her ailings, but 
after, she took to talking scandal, bitter and venom¬ 
ous, of neighbours, that is, of neighbours dead and 
dropped to dust, whose very tombstones are weathered 
so as to be illegible. Little by little her talk became 
less virulent, and softened into harmless prattle, and 
was all about the things of the farm and house. She 
was a first-rate worker. I was glad she took such 
an interest in the farm ; she brisked about and saw 
to everything. I was not able now to get about as 
much as I might have liked, as I suffered much from 
rheumatism and bronchitis. Neighbours came to 
see me, and all were in the same tale, that I was 
becoming an old man before my time, that the 
change in me was something unprecedented and un¬ 
accountable. I could not walk without a stick. I 
stooped. My hair was thin and grey, my limbs so 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


45 


shrunken that my clothes hung on me as on a scare¬ 
crow. I was advised to see a doctor : that is—every 
one had a special doctor who was sure to cure me; one 
said I must go to Dr. Budd at North Tawton, and an¬ 
other to Dr. Kingston at Plymouth, and one to this and 
one to that; they would have sent me flying over 
the country consulting doctors, and varying them 
every week. Some said—and I soon found that was 
the prevailing opinion—that I was bewitched, and 
advised me strongly to consult the white witch either 
in Exeter or Plymouth. I turned a deaf ear to them 
all. I wanted no doctors. I needed no white witch. 

I knew well enough what ailed me. 1 never now 
went up Brentor to church. Dear life ! 1 could not 

have climbed such a height if I had wished it ! My 
poor old bones ached at the very thought, and my 
back was nigh broken when I walked through the 
shippen one day to the linney (cattle shed.) Besides, 
I had grown terribly short of wind, and I had such a 
rattling in my chest. I almost choked of a night. 
That was the bronchitis, and when I coughed it 
shook me pretty well to pieces. 

So time passed, and i knew that I was sinking 
slowly and surely into my grave ; there was no real 
complaint on me to kill me. 1 was breaking up of 
old age, and yet was no more than three and twenty. 
Everyone said I looked as if I was over ninety years. 
If I could see the hundred, it would be something to 
be proud of before 1 was four and twenty. One 
thought troubled me sorely. Whatever would be¬ 
come of Foggaton without a Rosedhu m it.? 1 should 

die without leaving a lineal descendant in the male 
line. U would go out of the tamily. 1 had not a re- 


46 MARGERY OF QUETHER. 

lation in the world. We Rosedhus always marry 
late in life, and never have large families. I was the 
single thread on which the possible Rosedhu posterity 
depended. I believe that an aunt had once married, 
and had a lot of children, but she was never named 
in the family. It was tantamount to a loss of 
character in Rosedhu eyes. I did not even know her 
married name. She was dead ; but her issue no 
doubt remained, though I knew nothing of them. 
They, I suppose, would inherit. I found as I grew 
older that this fretted me more and more. I would 
soon pass beyond the grave into the world of spirits, 
and I knew, the moment I turned up there, that all 
the Rosedhus would be down on me for not having 
lef male issue to inherit Foggaton, each, with intol¬ 
erable self-assurance, setting himself up before me as 
an example I ought to have copied. As if, under my 
peculiar circumstances, I could help myself. The 
only one of my ancestors with whom I would be 
able to exchange words would be the George Rosedhu 
who had married Mary Cake. I could cast it in his 
teeth that had he been faithful to his first love, this 
disastrous contingency would not have occurred. 

“Ah ! said I, in a fit of spleen, “it is all very well 
of you, Margery, to go about the house singing. 
What is to become of the Rosedhus ? To whom will 
Foggaton fall.? You have drawn all the flush and 
health out of me and made yourself young at my 
charge—but I get nothing thereby.” 

“I will nurse you in your decrepitude, dearest 
George,” she answered, and a dimple came in her rosy 
cheek, the prettiest twinkle in her laughing blue eye. 
Upon my word she was a bonny buxom wench, and 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


47 

it would have been a delight to be in the house with 
her, had I been younger. Now I could only gaze on 
her charms despairingly from afar off, as Moses 
looked on the Promised Land from Pisgah. What a 
worker she was, moreover ! What a manager ! What 
an organiser! What a housekeeper, cook, dairy- 
woman, rolled into one! Never was the house so 
neat, the linen so cared for, the brass pans so scoured, 
the butter so sweet, the dairy so clean. She had been 
brought up in the old-fashioned, hard-working, sen¬ 
sible ways of a farm in the reign of Good Queen Bess. 
In our days the women are all infected with your 
Gladstone-Chamberlain topsy-turveyism, and farmers’ 
daughters play the piano and murder French, and 
farmers’ wives read Miss Braddon and Ouida and 
neglect the cows. Her ways were a surprise to all 
on the estate. The men and the maids had never seen 
anything like it. Folks could not make Margery out, 
who she was, and where I had picked her up. No¬ 
body seemed to belong to her ; she had never been 
seen before, and yet she knew the names of every tor, 
and hamlet, and coombe, and moor, as if she had been 
reared there. But though she knew the places, she 
did not know the people. She spoke of the Tremaines 
of Cullacombe, whereas the family had left that house 
two hundred years ago, and were settled at Sydenham. 
She talked of the Doidges of Hurlditch, a family that 
had been gone at least a hundred years. Kilworthy, 
she supposed, was still tenanted by the Glanvilles, 
whereas that race is extinct, and the place belongs to 
the Duke of Bedford, who has turned it into a farm. 
On the other hand, what was curious was, that 
Margery hit right now and then on the names of some 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


48 

of the labouring poor ; she would salute a man by his 
right Christian and surname, because he was exactly 
like an ancestor some two hundred and fifty years 
ago. Though the great families have migrated or 
disappeared, the poor have stuck to their native 
villages, and reproduce from century to century the 
same faces, the same prejudices, the same character¬ 
istics. They are almost as unchangeable as the hills. 

As I have said, Margery was a puzzle to everyone, 
and because a puzzle, the workmen and girls looked 
on her with suspicion. They resented the close way 
in which they were kept to their work and the rigid 
supervision exercised over them. Solomon Davy, 
the clerk, alone suspected who she was. He called 
several times to see me, and looked hard at me, with 
an uneasy manner, and seemed as though he wanted 
to ask me something, but lacked the courage to do so. 
Margery is always pleasant to Solomon, she knew 
the Davys that went before him, but he gives her a 
wide berth ; he never lets her come within arm’s reach 
of him. She feels it, I am sure, by her manner ; but 
she is too good-hearted to remark on it. 

I cannot deny that she was goodness and attention 
itself to me, and that I was fond of her. Just as a 
mother idolises her baby that draws all its life and 
growth from her, so was it with me. I begrudged 
her none of her youth and beauty ; I took a sort of 
motherly pride in her growth and the development of 
her charms, and for precisely the same reasons—they 
were all drawn out of me. 

One day Margery announced that she intended to 
marry me, and told me I must be prepared to stir my 
old stumps and go to church with her. She explained 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


49 

her reason candidly to me. She knew that I had a 
clear business head, and so she consulted me on the 
subject, which was flattering, and I should have felt 
more grateful had I not almost reached a condition 
past acute feeling. She told me that she would 
nurse me till I expired in her arms, and then, as my 
widow, would have Foggaton. This would secure her 
future, for with her renewed youth and with her hand¬ 
some estate she could always command suitors and 
secure a second husband, from whom she could ex¬ 
tract sufficient life and health to maintain her in the 
bloom of youth. When he was exhausted and withered 
up and dead, she could obtain a third, and so on ad 
infinitum. She objected to being again consigned 
to mummification in the tower of Brentor Church, 
and this was the simplest and most straightforward 
solution to her peculiar difficulties. The plan sug¬ 
gested was feasible, and, from her point of view, ad¬ 
mirable. I was now so shattered mentally and 
physically that I was in no condition to raise an 
objection. Indeed, I had no objection to raise. I 
freely, willingly submitted to her proposal. She 
exercised no undue compulsion on me ; she appealed 
to my reason, and my reason, as far as it remained, 
told me that her plan was sensible, and in every way 
worthy of her. She was a handsome woman, with a 
fine head of brown hair, and the brightest, wickedest, 
merriest pair of blue eyes. As for her cheeks— 
quarantines were nothing to them. A man in the 
prime of life would be proud to have such a woman 
as his wife, and her selection of me was, in its way, 
complimentary, even though I knew that I was taken 
for the sake of Foggaton. 

4 


50 


MA/^G£J?y OF QUETHER. 


So I consented, and she herself took the banns to 
the clerk. Solomon opened his eyes when she told 
him her purpose, moved uneasily on his seat, and 
scratched his head. He hardly knew what to make 
of it. He came to see me, and looked inquiringly at 
me, but I had one of my fits of coughing on me. 
When I was sufficiently recovered to speak, I told 
Solomon how impatient I was for my wedding day 
to arrive, and how kind and excellent a nurse 
Margery was to me. He went away puzzled and 
rubbing his forehead. I made but one stipulation 
with respect to my wedding, that was, that I should 
be conveyed to the foot of Brentor in a spring-cart, 
laid on straw, and thence be conveyed up the hill to 
the altar by four strong men, in a litter, laid upon a 
feather-bed, and with hot bottles at my feet and sides. 
I was entirely incapable of walking. 

This was at the beginning of November. Conse¬ 
quently ten months had elasped since that fatal 
Christmas Eve on which I had made the acquaintance 
of Margery of Quether. So the banns were read on 
the first Sunday in the month at the afternoon ser¬ 
vice, there being no service that day in the morning 
in the little church. The banns were published 
between George Rosedhu, of Foggaton, bachelor, 
and Margaret Palmer, of Quether, spinster. If any¬ 
one knew any just cause or impediment why these 
two should not be joined together in holy matrimony, 
they were now to declare it. That was the first time 
of asking. 

A pretty sensation the reading of these banns caused. 
Farmer Palmer’s face turned as mottled as brawn, and 
Miss Palmer blushed as red as a rose and buried her 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


51 

face in her hymn-book. My old Margery had over¬ 
shot her mark, as the sequel proved. She had not 
reckoned with young Margaret her great, great, 
great, great, grand-niece. 

When public worship was concluded, Mr. Palmer 
and his daughter, instead of directing their steps 
homeward towards Quether, where tea was awaiting 
them, walked in the opposite direction, and de¬ 
scended on Foggaton, to know of me what was 
meant by the banns—sober earnest or silly joke. 

Margery was not at home. She always frequented 
St. Mary Tavy Church, because she had a dislike to 
Brentor; it was associated in her mind with two 
centuries of chilling and repellant associations. 
Margery was a regular church-goer. That was part 
of her bringing up. In her young days, if anyone 
missed church, he was fined a shilling, and if he did 
not take the sacrament, was whipped at the cart-tail. 
These penalties are no longer exacted ; nevertheless, 
Margery is punctual in her attendance. Such is the 
force of a habit early acquired. 

Thus it came about that Farmer Palmer and his 
daughter arrived at Foggaton before Margery had 
returned from church. I am sorry that my hand is 
not expert at describing things which I neither saw 
nor heard accurately. I have no imagination, which 
is a delusive faculty leading to serious error. Palmer 
and his daughter were attended by Solomon Davy, 
who I believe endeavoured to explain the situation to 
them and told them who Margery really was. I had 
become so dull of hearing, and so cataracted in eye, 
that I was unable to understand all that went on, and 
to follow and take part in the somewhat heated and 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


52 

animated conversation. If, like a modern writer of 
fiction, I were to give the whole of what was said, 
with description of the attitudes assumed, the in¬ 
flections of the voices, and the degrees of colour that 
mantled the several cheeks, I might make my narra¬ 
tive more acceptable, no doubt, to the vulgar many, 
but it would lose its value to the appreciative few, 
who asked for a true record of what I observed. 

I believe that Solomon in time made it clear to the 
dull intellects of the Palmers that the banns were for 
my marriage with the great, great, great, great-aunt 
of Margaret, and not with herself What he said of 
poor Margery I don’t know. I strained my ears to 
catch what he said, but heard only a buzzing as of 
bees. I doubt not that he spiced the truth with plenty 
of falsehood. 

Farmer Palmer has a loud voice. I heard him say 
to his daughter, “Wait here a bit, Margaret, along 
with George Rosedhu, and bide till t’other Margery 
arrives; I back one woman against another.” 

‘ ‘ Oh, father ! ” exclaimed the pretty creature, 
“ where be you a-going to ” 

“My dear, I shall be back directly. This be Fifth 
o’ November, and bonfire night. The lads will be all 
collecting faggots for a blaze on the moor. I’ll fetch 
’em here, and they can have the pleasure o’ burning 
the old witch instead of a man o’ straw. ” 

I held out my hands in terror and deprecation. 
“You durstn’t do it! ” 

“ Why not ? ” asked the farmer composedly. “ Her’s 
a witch and no mistake. Her have sucked you dry 
of life as an urchin (hedgehog) sucks a cow of milk. ” 
“But,” protested Solomon, “though that be true 


MARGERY OF QUETHBR, 


53 

enough, what about the laws ? I won’t say but that 
it be right and scriptural to burn a witch ; for it is 
written, ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,’ but I 
reckon it be against the laws.” 

“Not at all,” said Palmer. “ No man can be had 
up for burning a person who has no existence.” 

“But she has existence,” I remonstrated. “That 
is the prime cause of her trouble ; she has too much 
of it ; she can’t die.” 

“There is no evidence of her existence,” argued 
Palmer. “You, Solomon, tell me how far back your 
registers go in Brentor Church. ” 

“ Back, I reckon, to about 1680.” 

“Very well, then they contain no record of her 
birth and baptism. Now you cannot be hung for 
killing a person of whose existence there is absolutely 
no legal evidence. The law won’t touch us if we do 
burn her.” 

“But—but,” I said, crying and snuffling, “she is 
your own flesh and blood.” 

‘ ‘ That may be, but that is no reason against her 
cremation. My own Margaret stands infinitely nearer 
to me, and her interests closer to my heart, than the 
person and welfare of a remote ancestress. As the 
banns have been called, Foggaton shall go to my 
daughter and to no one else. In three weeks’ time 
Margaret shall be Mrs. Rosedhu.” He spoke very 
firmly. 

“Father, dear father, how can you be so cruel to 
me?” cried Margaret. “Do y’ look what an atomy 
Mr. Rosedhu be come to ? ” 

The burly yeoman paid no heed to his daughters 
protest, knowing, no doubt, its unreality. He said 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


54 

to me, *‘Look y’ here, George Rosedhu, you’ve had 
my daughter’s name coupled wi’ yourn in the church 
to-day, and read out before the whole congregation, 
without axing my leave or hers. I won’t have her 
made game of even by a man o’ substance like you, 
so her shall marry you before December comes, 
whether you like it or not. ” 

“Oh, Mr. Palmer, sir,” I pleaded, “how can you 
think to force your daughter into nuptials which must 
he distasteful to her } ” 

“ Don’t you trouble your head about that. Mar¬ 
garet knows which side her bread is buttered. She 
can distinguish between clotted cream and skim 
milk.” 

“Besides,”! argued, “I am bound by the most 
solemn engagements to my Margery. I have prom¬ 
ised to settle Foggaton on her.” 

“You cannot,” shouted the farmer of Quether. 
“ The thing is impossible. You cannot marry a 
woman who has no existence in the eye of the law. 
The only Margaret Palmer of Quether of whom the 
law has cognizance is she who now stands before 
you. She has been baptized, vaccinated, and con¬ 
firmed. What more do you want to establish her exis¬ 
tence ? Whereas, what documentary proof can the 
other Margery produce that she exists ? There is but 
one Margaret Palmer of Quether m this nineteenth 
century ; that's flat.” He slapped the table, and then, 
with the air of one administering a crushing argu¬ 
ment, he added, “ Now, tell me, is it possible for a 
man to marry a woman from whom he is removed 
by from two to three centuries ? Answer me that. ” 

“ Put in that bald way,” I said, “ it does seem un- 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


55 


reasonable; but in these Radical-Gladstone-Cham- 
berlain times one does not know where one stands. 
All the lines of demarcation between the possible and 
the impossible are wiped out, reason and fact do not 
jump together.” 

“I leave you to digest that question,” answered 
Palmer triumphantly. He saw I was pushed into a 
corner. Then he went out, along with Solomon 
Davy. 

I do not think that Margaret objected to be left to 
meet Margery. I noticed her pluming and bridling 
like a game-cock before an encounter, She stroked 
down the folds of her gown, and pursed up her lips, 
and now and then shot out her tongue from between 
her lips, as I have seen a wasp test his sting before 
stabbing me. I was getting uneasy for Margery and 
was myself uncomfortable. I said, “ Miss Margaret, 
will you be so good as to pick me up my handker- 
cher; it is lying there on the floor, and I be so cruel 
bad took with the lumbagie that I can’t bend to take 
it myself.” 

She complied with my request somewhat surlily. 
Then I said, “ Would you mind, now, just uncorking 
that bottle there on the shelf, and putting a drop or 
two on a lump of sugar, and giving it me. My hands 
be that shaky I cannot put it in my mouth myself, 
and I’ve no teeth to hold it by. The drops be 
ipecacuanha, and be good for bronchitis.” 

“No, I won’t do it, you nasty old man. 

“Then, miss, will you rub my spine with hartshorn 
and oil.? You’ll find a bottle of the mixture on the 
sideboard, and a bit of flannel in the cupboard.” 

‘ ‘ I will do nothing of the sort, ” she said, testily. 


56 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


“You won’t, miss ? Then please to take me up in 
your arms and carry me to bed. Margery does it. 
She is very kind and considerate ; she begrudges me 
no trouble, and feeds me out of a spoon.” 

‘ ‘ I will do nothing of the sort, ” she said again, in 
short, angry tones, and with an air of supreme 
disgust. 

‘ ‘ I am sorry for it, ” said I. That was Gospel truth. 
I knew that when the two women met such a storm 
of words would rage as would wreck my poor nerves, 
and I wanted to be in bed and out of it, before the 
hurricane broke loose. 

“ You’ll have to do all this for me,” I said, “when 
you become Mrs. Rosedhu. A very old person needs 
just as much attention as a baby. I know that, for 
I’ve gone through it myself; I’ve done the nursing. 
Why will you not leave me alone, and allow Margery 
to marry me ? She will take care of me ; she kisses 
and fondles me. Will you ? ” 

“You disgusting old scarecrow and atomy, cer¬ 
tainly not.” 

“An atomy—scarecrow and atomy—what next 
will you call me ? Yet you want to marry me ! ” 

“You fool!” said Margaret, shortly. “I put up 
with you for the sake of Foggaton.” 

“It’s the same with Margery,” I said; “but she 
put it more pleasantly. Her manners are better than 
yours ; but then she belongs to the* old school—the 
good old school 1 ” I sighed. 

What I said made her angry. She did not like to 
have comparisons drawn between herself and her 
remote great aunt, to her own disadvantage. 

“ I suppose I am to have a voice in the matter,” I 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


57 

went on ; “ and though I have liked you very much, 
Margaret, yet I like the other Margery better. One 
thing in her favour is—she is older than you. ” 

“You are not going to have her—who has drained 
life and spirit out of you. Do you think I will allow 
it? Don't you see I bear her a grudge? She has 
turned the fresh and hale George who courted me 
into a shrivelled old man. It would have been a 
pleasure to have young George, it is a penance to 
have the old one. I owe her that, and I shall scratch 
her eyes out when we meet. ” 

“Whatever you do,” I pleaded, “do not hurt her. 
Your father has made a dreadful threat. I hope he 
will not execute it.” 

“ There she comes ! ” exclaimed Margaret Palmer, 
starting to her feet in a tremor of delight. “ I hear 
her step on the walk. ” 

“ Throw the hearthrug over me,” I entreated, “ I 
cannot bear to be agitated. Toss the table-cover 
above the hearthrug, all helps to deaden the sound. ” 
Margaret complied with my request. Here again 
my narrative must present an appearance of incom¬ 
pleteness. I cannot describe what I neither saw nor 
heard during the interview between Margaret and 
Margery, because I was buried under a heavy sheep¬ 
skin rug and a thick, coloured, damask table-cover 
on the top of that. I have no imagination, and I 
only relate what I actually saw and heard. I saw 
nothing, and what I heard resembled the jangling of 
pots and pans when a host of maids are going after 
a swarm of bees. Of words I could distinguish none, 
till after awhile the hearthrug and table-cover slipped 
off, owing to my coughing a great deal, the dust out 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


58 

of the hearthrug having got into my bronchial tubes. 
Then I saw a sight which filled me with dismay. 

My room was full of men and boys, with their 
caps and hats on. Their faces were flushed and 
eager; savage delight danced in their eyes. One 
had a pitch-fork, several had sticks, one was armed 
with a flail. Head and shoulders above the rest 
stood Farmer Palmer, keeping back the mob that 
crowded in at the door. In the front of all, as if in a 
cockpit, opposite each other, stood the two Margarets, 
red in face, blazing in temper, their tongues going, 
their eyes sparkling, their hands extended. I will 
say that poor Margery acted solely on the defensive. 
She held up her arms in self-protection. Margaret 
had driven her nails into her cheek and a red streak 
down the side showed that she had drawn blood. 

“See, see!” exclaimed the younger Margaret, 
“the witch 1 her power is broken. The blood is 
running.” 

This is a popular belief. If you can draw blood 
from a witch, her power—at least over you—is at an 
end. 

My poor Margery gazed with alarm at the crowd 
of red, threatening faces that looked at her. She 
shrank from the sticks, the clubs, the pitchfork and 
flail. She drew behind me, as if I, broken down into 
premature old age, could defend and assist her. I 
raised my shrill pipe in entreaty, but my words were 
without effect. Thqse horrible faces glowered at 
Margery with the savagery of dogs surrounding a hare 
they are about to tear to pieces. The fear of witch¬ 
craft blotted all human compassion out of their 
hearts. 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


59 

Suddenly a red light blazed in at the window. 
The evening had fallen fast and it was now dark. 

“Look! look there!” shouted Farmer Palmer. 
“Look there, you witch, at the bed made for you. 
There are plenty of faggots to heap over you should 
you complain of the cold.” 

Margery uttered a scream of terror and clutched 
my chair, whilst she cowered on the floor behind it. 

“Oh, George!” she cried in her agony of dread, 
“save me ! save me ! They cannot kill me but they 
can fry and burn me ! Then I shall live on—on—on, 
a scorched morsel, not like a human being. ” 

“My darling,” I answered, “I can do nothing 
against all these men. ” I, however, made a desperate 
attempt. “I am master in this house,” I cried in my 
shrill old tones ; ‘ ‘ no one has any right within the 
doors without my permission, and I order you all to 
go away peaceably and to leave me alone.”’ 

The men and boys, led by Palmer, laughed and 
did not budge an inch. There came a shout from 
outside. 

“ Bring out the witch, and let her burn ! ” 

There is an innate cruelty m human nature which 
neither Christianity, nor education, nor teetotalism 
will eradicate. I always thought the peasantry of 
the West of England wonderfully gentle, kindly, and 
free from brutality, and yet—scratch the man and 
the beast appears—here were my peaceable, tender¬ 
hearted countrymen ravening for the life of a poor 
woman, really pretty, and as good-dispositioned and 
without malice as an angel. I knew that they would 
gloat over her anguish in the fire, that they would 


6 o 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


poke up the fuel to make her burn more thoroughly— 
they would do so without compassion ; not really 
because they thought her a witch, but because Farmer 
Palmer had told them they might burn her without 
fear of the law. 

A fresh heap of fuel had been tossed upon the pyre, 
and the flame spouted up to heaven. A roar from 
the boys without. “Bring her out! Let her 
burn ! ” 

Poor Margery covered her eyes with her hands to 
shut out the terrible light. 

“ Oh, George, George 1 ’ she cried, “save me, and 
I will give you back some of your youth and strength 
again." 

“Stand back," thundered Palmer, as the circle of 
men contracted about her, and hands were thrust 
forth to grasp and tear her from my chair. “Do 
you hear me ? She has offered to recover our friend 
Rosedhu." 

“You cannot do it, my poor darling," I said. 

“Oh, save me, George, and I will indeed." 

“You hear her," shouted Palmer. “Stand back, 
and let her fulfil what she has undertaken. ’’ 

Then Margaret put in her voice. She was afraid 
that her rival would escape. “No, father, do not 
trust her. She can do nothing. She is a witch, and 
wants to cast spells over you all. Take her away, 
boys, and pitch her into the fire. Don’t listen to a 
word she says, however hard she prays to be let 

go-" 

“ Into the flames with her 1 " shouted the men, and 
stepped forward. ‘ ‘ That is the place for such as 
she/' 


MAKGER y OF QUETHEK. 61 

“Fair play, my lads,” said Palmer, and with his 
strong arm he drove the rabble back. ‘ ‘ As for you, 
Margaret, don’t you interfere. Now then, you—Mar¬ 
gery—or whatever you call yourself, stand up and 
come forward. None shall hurt you if you really 
recover Rosedhu of his age and incapicity. But, 
mind you, if you fail, I swear that with this cudgel I 
will break every bone in your body, and then throw 
you into the fire with my own arms.” 

Margery quivered and cried out at the threat. 

Are you going to do it or not ? ” asked Palmer. 

Poor Margery, feeling the necessity for prompt 
action, if she would save herself from terrible torture, 
rose from her crouching posture and stole tremblingly 
forward. 

“Stand out o’ the road, boys,” shouted Palmer; 
“ clear away with you,” and with his stick he swept 
a circle round Margery and me. 

“Oh, George,” she said, with tears of mortification 
in her blue eyes, ‘ ‘ I am sorry to do it. I wouldn’t 
if I could ; I really wouldn’t. But I cannot help my¬ 
self. These cruel men do so scare me. We might 
have been so comfortable together ; I’d have nursed 
you into your grave quite beautiful and convenient 
like, and then I’d have had Foggaton to myself, and 
it would have gone so well for all parties. But now, 
you see, that blessed arrangement you managed so 
nicely for me won’t come to nothing because of the 
wickedness of evil men, who walk about like unto 
roaming and roaring lions seeking whom they may 
devour. I cannot help myself, George. You’ll do 
me the justice to say it were against my will and 


62 MARGERY OF QUETHER, 

under compulsion. There, give me your two hands 
into mine.” 

She took my hands and stood opposite me, holding 
them at arms’ length, and looking into my eyes. 
Poor thing ! her lips trembled, and the tears stood on 
the lids and overflowed and trickled down her soft 
red cheeks. It was a sore trial and disappointment 
to her, but she bore it like a Christian, and never cast 
a word of bitterness at those who forced her to it. 
And to think what a sacrifice she was making! 
Those rude creatures knew nothing of that, and could 
not appreciate the greatness of her self-sacrifice. I 
submitted, because I saw that in this way only had I 
the means of rescuing her. 

As she held my hands, I felt as if streams of vital 
force were flowing from her up my arms into my 
body. The aching in my bones ceased. My legs be¬ 
came stronger, my head lighter and more erect; I 
could see better, and hear better. I began to smell 
the peat burning on the hearth, I felt an inclination to 
draw Margery on to my knees and kiss her ; but 
when 1 looked at her, the desire passed, she was 
waning as I waxed. She grew older, the colour left 
her cheek, her eyes became dim; then, all at once I 
sprang to my feet and shook off her hands. ‘ ‘ Enough 
Margery, enough,” I said. “You have restored to 
me sufficient of my strength and health, the rest I 
freely make over to you. Now for the rest of you.” 
My voice was full and loud as thatof Palmer himself. 
“ Every one of you listen to me. This is my house, 
and an Englishman’s house is his castle. Leave this 
room, leave my land at once, or 1 prosecute every 
man jack of you for burglary and trespass. Good 


MARGERY OF QUETHER. 


63 

Lord ! Do you know where you are ? Do you know 
who I am? This is Foggaton, and I am a Rosedhu. 
Gladstone and Chamberlain and that Harcourt fellow 
haven’t brought matters quite so far yet that every 
dirty Radical may come inside a landed proprietor’s 
doors and snap his finger under his nose. ” I snatched 
the stick out of Palmer’s hand and went at the men 
with it. Not one ventured to show me his face. I 
saw a sudden change of posture, and a crush and rush 
out of my door and down my little passage. “You 
bide here, Palmer,” I said: “and Margaret also. 
But as for all this ragtag and bob-tail that you have 
brought in, I’ll make a clean sweep qf them in a 
jiffy.” 

“It is all very well, Rosedhu,” said Palmer, fold¬ 
ing his arms, and setting his legs wide apart. “You 
have got rid of the rabble, and you are right to do so 
if you choose! But you do not get rid of me and 
Margaret so fast. The banns have been called be¬ 
tween my daughter and you; I take no account of 
the other, she has no legal existence.” 

I was silent, and looked from Margery to Margaret. 

“ Besides,” Palmer went on, “you may not think so 
much of her now. In appearance she is old enough 
to be your grandmother. ” 

Certainly Margery looked aged, a hale woman, 
but still old—too old to be thought of as a bride at 
the hymeneal altar. Margaret was young and pretty ; 
I wish she had not been quite so young and opened 
such an alarming vista of possibilities. But then I 
looked at myself in a glass opposite, and saw that I 
was gray-headed and on the turn down the hill of life. 
That was an advantage. “There is one thing,” 1 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


64 

said musingly ; “in the matter of amiability there is 
no comparison. Margery is as good-” 

“We will have no comparisons drawn/' interrupted 
Palmer, as the girl darted a look at me that plainly 
said, “You shall suffer for this some day." “Hold 
out your fist like a man and say you will take my 
daughter for better, for worse, and make her Mistress 
of Foggaton within the month. The first time of 
asking took place to-day." 

“ Let us say in another couple or three years," said 
I, with the principle of the family at heart. 

“No," answered Palmer curtly. “Within the 
month. Unless you consent to that—into the fire the 
old hag goes." 

“Oh, Palmer ! " I exclaimed, “you passed your 
word to her that she should be spared." 

“No, no. I said that unless she restored you I 
would break every bone of her body and throw her 
into the flames myself. I will certainly not touch her 
with my stick, nor commit her myself to the flames, 
but I will let the men outside deal with her as they 
like. I see what it is, there is no security for you 
from the witchcrafts of that old hag till there is another 
woman in this house. That woman must be my 
daughter, and when she is here I defy all the witches 
that dance on Cox Tor, and all the pretty wenches 
of Devonshire to get so much as one foot inside the 
door." 

“ Father ! " protested Margaret. 

“ My dear, I know it." 

“Well, you need not say it.” 

“ Give me a twelvemonth's grace," I entreated. 

“ No, not above twenty days." 


MARGERY OF QUETHER, 


65 

A howl from without—a fresh faggot was cast on 
the fire. The pyre was not on my ground but on a 
bit of waste adjoining the lane, and as I am not lord 
of the manor I have no rights over it. That the rascals 
knew. 

Poor Margery laid hold of my arm. Margaret at 
once intervened and thrust her aside. “You do not 
touch him again.” 

“You see,” laughed the father, “it is as I said. 
Come, your hand.” 

I gave it with a sigh. 

I have written these few pages to let people know 
that Margery of Quether is about somewhere—where, 
I do not know for certain, but I believe she has gone 
off into the remotest parts of Dartmoor, where, prob¬ 
ably, she will seek herself a cave among the granite 
tors, in which to conceal herself, where no boys will 
be likely to find her and throw stones at her. I am 
uneasy now that there is such a rush of visitors to 
Dartmoor to enjoy the wonderful air and scenery, lest 
they should come across her, and in thoughtlessness 
or ignorance do her an injury. Now that they know 
her story, I trust they will give her a wide berth. 

I think that what I have gone through has taught me 
a lesson, but it is not one much to be recommended, 
though it is one largely followed : Never succour 
those who solicit succour or they will suck you dry 


5 




TOM A’ TUDDLAMS. 


CHAPTER I. 

JULE a’ NORT a’ NQWHEER. 

If I were to begin my story with the words, ‘ ‘ Look 
in the map ! I am as sure as that my head stands 
on my shoulders that those who read so far would 
neither obey the injunction, nor read another word of 
my tale. Consequently, instead of giving that piece 
of advice, I say. Take my word for it, all the western 
border of Yorkshire, from Derbyshire to the sources 
of the Tees, is a region of mountains and moors. 
The scenery is very wild in places—rugged, pictu¬ 
resque, varied, and everywhere beautiful. 

In parts of this region it is still unusual for a native 
to be known by a surname. Indeed, he is generally 
doubtful whether he possesses one, and has to con¬ 
sider and consult authorities for it when he gives in 
his name to have his banns called. Every one in 
one of these dales knows every one else, and every 
one’s pedigree, and it is by their pedigrees that each 
man and woman is known, much as in Wales, where 
every one was an ap someone, and in Normandy 
of old every man was a fitz. For instance, in the 



68 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


parish of Kebroyd, in these Western Hills, there were, 
no doubt, at least two Johns and two Marys. One 
man would be John a' Dick’s and the other John a’ 
Jake’s ; and each Mary would, in like manner, be 
recognized and distinguished by the name of her 
father. But as it sometimes happens that there may 
be in the same place two Johns, both sons of Richards 
though of different Richards, to differentiate them the 
grandfathers of each are called in, and one becomes 
John a’ Dick’s a’ Harry’s, and the other John a’ Dick’s 
a’ Jake’s. But sometimes the designation of a man is 
not by a patronymic, he takes the territorial name 
when he is the owner of and permanent resident in a 
small farm or cot. This was how Tom a’ Will’s a’ 
Joe’s came to be called Tom a’ Tuddlams. Tuddlams 
is not an euphonious name ; but no name but one 
sounded sweeter in the ears of Tom, for Tom was 
proud of Tuddlams—prouder, maybe, ‘than the Duke 
of Devonshire is of Chatsworth, or the swallow is of 
its well-plastered nest. Tom loved Tuddlams because 
Tuddlams had come to him in a time of great distress 
and doubt where he should go, and had come to him 
quite unexpectedly. 

I have said that no name but one sounded sweeter in 
Tom’s ears. The one name more grateful to him than 
even Tuddlams was that of his wife Jewel. “Jewel ” 
was the name by which she was christened, but 
“Jewel” was shortened on the vulgar tongue into 
“Juleand she was known throughout the neigh¬ 
bourhood as Jule a’ Nort a’ Nowheer, or, more lacon¬ 
ically, as Jule a’ Nobbudy. This meant that she 
did not belong to the parish of Kebroyd, nor to 
any of the parishes immediately impinging on 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


69 

Kebroyd, into which public opinion allowed the 
young Kebroydians, when seeking mates, to look for 
them. Every one beyond that arbitrary line was es¬ 
teemed as “ nobody ” and “ nort ” (naught), and the 
whole of the British Empire outside the same line was 
“ nowheer,” (nowhere). If Tom had wanted a wife, 
why did he not wait till he came into the parish and 
then look about him.? Tom had not waited till his 
uncle died and he had inherited Tuddlams, and settled 
in to take a “skeen” (look) round and choose a 
housewife where his home was to be. He had mar¬ 
ried an outlandish lass, of whose ancestry nothing 
was known and whose birthplace none had seen. 

Tom a’ Tuddlams pretended to pay no heed to 
what was said, but, for all his affected indifference, 
it irritated him, and rankled in his heart. 

Tom’s ideas were not cast in the same mould as 
those of the people of Kebroyd. He had seen the 
world—that is, a good deal more of it than they—and 
he was impatient at their narrowness and prejudices. 

Tuddlams was a small, low farmhouse, built of 
limestone blocks that had turned gray with old age. 
The fells rose behind it, covered with heather, on 
which one waded knee-deep, and when one waded, 
started grouse. A dip in the hills carried the drainage 
away to the Skelf; little converging becks rose on the 
sides of Scalefell and Houghfell and united in a 
ravine below the farm, where they formed a brawling, 
foaming stream of some pretence. Tuddlams lay in 
a scoop or basin of the moors, high up, sheltered from 
fierce winds, unless they blew up the valley from the 
south-east. A scramble of twenty minutes above the 
house brought one to Arncliff, a rock from the summit 


70 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


of which, through a dip in the moors, could be seen— 
when the sun set over it—the flaming, quivering 
waters of Morecamb Bay, like a vast outspread sheet 
of gold-leaf fluttered by the air. 

There were no woods about Tuddlams, the trees 
began lower down the valley. Around the farm- 
buildings were a few fields under cultivation, which 
belonged to Tom ; but the great advantage of the 
place lay in the free runs the moor afforded to the 
sheep kept there. 

Tom had led a roving life. His father had been 
an unsuccessful, discontented, disagreeable man. He 
had gone away from Kebroyd early in life, and had 
wandered from town to town in quest of work, never 
settling for long in any place, and never settling for 
long to any one trade. Nature had set her mark on 
him as a politician, but hard necessity drove him to 
labour with his hands for his livelihood, instead of 
exercising his tongue for the subversion of his country 
and social order. He was a cantankerous man, 
ambitious to make a figure in the clubs to which he 
belonged, and angry at having to think of his work 
and tinker at that, instead of at the constitution of 
England. The consequence was that he neglected 
his work, did it badly, and was discharged. It never 
occurred to him that blame attached to himself; he 
attributed his misfortunes to the rapacity of the 
masters, who ground down the proletariat, and grew 
wealthy and arrogant and cruel on the sweat of the 
poor. Tom’s father. Will a’Joe’s, as he was called in 
his native place, Bill Greenwood as he called himself 
out of it, as already said, never stuck long to one 
trade. He tried wool-combing, he tried cutlery, he 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


71 

tried dyeing, weaving, he even for a short while 
cultivated liquorice at Pontefract; he went on a coal 
barge on the Calder canal, quarrelled with his trade 
when he did not quarrel with his employer, and, 
finally, helped to make Devil’s dust in a shoddy rnill 
at Ossett. The Devil’s dust got into his lungs, and 
cast him on his bed in a galloping consumption. On 
his death-bed he threatened to prosecute the nurse 
who attended on him, and he argued politics with his 
doctor till a fit of coughing came on and he broke a 
blood-vessel, and died slapping at his son who ran to 
hold him in his arms. 

His wife had died some years before, glad, poor 
woman, to leave a life full of change and privation, 
and only sorry to be obliged to leave behind her her 
little boy to drift about the world where that spinning, 
eddy-headed husband of hers carried him. 

After his father’s death, Tom found work in a mill, 
and remained at his post for several years, steady, 
patient, exact in doing his daily task, and doing it 
always well. He was a quiet, reserved fellow, who 
did not make many friends, because he did not seek 
the society of his fellows, and he had acquired in his 
drifting life the art to live to himself. But though he 
had few friends he had no enemies, for he was harm¬ 
less, and ever ready to do what was kind to those 
who needed assistance. 

As he went to his work every day and as he re¬ 
turned from it, he encountered a girl who worked in 
another factory. This girl was Jewel, a tall lass with 
fresh complexion and clear honest eyes, with hair like 
amber, but covered with a scarlet kerchief, after the 
habit of mill girls. Also, like the rest, she wore a white 


72 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


pinafore, and carried her dinner in a tin can. She was 
usually attended by a brother, a poor deformed boy;, 
with one shoulder higher than the other, and a twisted 
spine. This lad, almost daily, attended his sister to 
the factory, and went to meet her as she returned, 
when “ the mill loosed.'’ 

Tom took to pitying the cripple, made him little 
presents, and gained a smile from Jewel. An ac¬ 
quaintance thus began, slowly ripened, and Tom 
thought the happiest moments of the day were those 
to or from his work, and the most miserable occasions 
those when he got away too late or too early to walk 
with Jewel. Tom, however, was not aware that he 
loved her, till a time of distress came on Ossett, and 
Jewel was thrown out of work. 

Among the hands the greatest distress prevailed. 
Hundreds were discharged from the mills. Then it 
was that Jewel lost her work. 

Tom became uneasy about her. He looked around 
for her, but could not see her. He feared she might 
suffer want, that she would be forced to leave Ossett, 
and go elsewhere seeking work—that Wakefield, Dews¬ 
bury, Leeds, might engulf her, and* that then it would 
be impossible for him to trace and recover her. Then, 
and then only, did he wake to discover how much in 
love he was. A couple of weeks passed, weeks of 
torturinganxiety to Tom. He could endure the un¬ 
certainty, the suspense, no longer, so he went to the 
house where she lodged with her brother, and rapped 
at the door. As he stood on the steps listening 
for her foot, waiting for her call to enter, he heard the 
tones of a fiddle within, playing— 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS, 


n 


“Christians, awake! salute the happy morn 
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born! ” 

Christmas was coming, but was not come. What 
a sad Christipias it would be to many in Ossett ! 
thought Tom. Happy was he to be still in full work. 
He tapped again at the door, and went in. No can¬ 
dle was burning, but there was a fire of coals shed¬ 
ding a red glow over the “ house,” as the main down¬ 
stairs’ room of a cottage is designated in Yorkshire. 

By the fire sat Jewel, doing needlework, bending 
forward to see by the flames, and so the light danced 
over her amber hair. On a low stool sat the de¬ 
formed, half-witted boy, fiddling. 

“Jule,” said Tom, “ art thou out o’ work? 

Eh ! I am, Tom.” 

‘^And how beest thou keeping body and soul to¬ 
gether ? ” 

“Theyhou’d together without keeping, like man 
and wife. ” 

“ Why, lass! Jim addles (earns) nowt. Hast thou 
any savings out o’ which to feed him and thee ? ” 

“The savings be all emptiness, Tom.” 

“Look thee here, lass,” said Tom Greenwood. 
“ I’m in work mysen, and the strong ought to help 
the weak. If thou’lt let me help thee, thou must take 
me altogether—me, that is, for the sake o* my sav¬ 
ings.” 

Jewel considered a moment, then said— 

‘ ‘ Who takes me must take Jim, too. I’ve to fend 
(care) for him, poor lad ; there’s no one else. ” 

“ Never another word, lass ; I’ve a broad back, 
and I’ll carry the whole bag o’ tricks,” 


^4 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


That was a queer courtship, and a doubtful start 
on the journey of life, made doubly doubtful after 
the banns had been put in, by Tom getting his dis¬ 
missal from the factory where he worked, not from 
any fault of his, but because there was no work more 
to be done in it till trade looked up. 

“Jule," said he dolefully, ‘'now I’m out o’ work 
too, so we sha’n’t lose nothing by honeymoon holi¬ 
daying. We can’t be worse off together than we are 
apart, so we’d better link our hands and hearts. ” 
“Very well, Tom : thou know’st best.” 

That was a dismal wedding on Christmas Day. 
They had no new clothes, a sorry dinner, and no 
wedding trip, though they kept, perforce, holiday. 
Hungry and poor they went to church ; hungry and 
poor, but full of love, and rich in hope, they began 
their united stream of life. 


TOMA’ TUDDLAMS. 


7 ' 


CHAPTER 11. 

TUDDLAMS. 

Tom had some savings, but not much. Jewel had 
none at all. How could she ? At the best of times 
her earnings had but barely provided for her own 
and her brother’s necessities. Six shillings—at piece¬ 
work sometimes eight, never ten—per week, worsted 
reeling. How had she managed to support herself 
and brother on from six to eight shillings a week ? 
She had often tried to get Jim to do some trifling task 
which might add something to the little - store, but 
he was too unreliable, too feather-brained, to remain 
long at anything ; and all her efforts were unavail¬ 
ing. Yet, he was always sorry that he had dis¬ 
appointed her, and cried piteously over his own short¬ 
comings. But he was as incorrigible as a drunkard. 
He could not stick to regular work. And yet he 
earned money in his own way, though a way not 
approved by his sister. Jim, like so many who are 
half-witted, had a singularly developed faculty for 
music, and he could play with rare delicacy and 
feeling on his violin. No one who heard his per¬ 
formance without seeing him would believe that he 
lacked brain : he threw so much expression into what 
he played, and played with such refinement of feel¬ 
ing. His skill on the violin led him to play in the 



TOM A* TUB DL A MS, 


76 

“folds” or mill-yards to the workmen during their 
dinner hour; and those who heard him gave him 
halfpence. Sometimes he went, when invited, into 
the public-houses.' His sister had urged him with 
fervour not to allow himself to be enticed into the 
taverns ; but Jim could say no man “nay,” and he 
went in, played, received money and drink, and now 
and then staggered home tipsy. 

But now this small rill of income dried up. The 
hands were no more flush of money, the folds were 
empty, and Jim might play to the idle, but he re¬ 
ceived no pay in return, 

“ Whatever is to be done } ” asked Tom disconso¬ 
lately. “We must go elsewhere.” 

“ But whither shall we go } ” asked Jewel. 

A rap at the door, and a letter flung in by the post¬ 
man. The question was answered. Tom’s uncle 
was dead—Uncle Nick, about whom he had scarcely 
heard—thought less. Uncle Nick had been a small 
landowner—a yeoman on a very small scale—at 
the head of the Skelfdale, at Tuddlams, in Kebroyd 
parish. Uncle Nick was dead, and left no sons or 
daughters to inherit Tuddlams after him, so Tuddlams 
fell to his nephew. This is how Tom a’ Will’s a’ 
Joe’s came to be Tom a’ I'uddlams at the age of 
twenty-three. 

A proud and happy man was Tom Greenwood— 
proud above all to have a house of his own in which 
to place his dear Jewel, to be its mistress and queen. 
Jewel looked about her. 

“ I’m glad—I’m fain glad,” she said. “ It must be 
two miles from a public-house, and there’ll be no 
trouble ^bout Jim.” 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


77 

Is that the chief good o’ t’ place in thine eyes ? ” 
asked Tom, a little disconcerted. 

“ It is one, and a great one,” answered Jewel. 

But every pleasure has its attendant annoyance, 
and Tom’s delight and pride in his home were 
damped, and his temper nettled, when he heard his 
wife—his Jewel of jewels—lightly designated by all 
the neighbours, acting under a common impulse, 
“ Jule a’ nort a’ nowheer.” 

It cannot be said with truth that Tom received a 
cordial welcome on his arrival in the parish. In the 
first place, he had married a foreigner. 

‘ ‘ ’Tis a pity, ” said some, ‘ ‘ that he should have took 
that lass Jule a’ nort a’ nowheer! ’Tis like putting 
new cloth into an ow’d garment, or new wine into 
ow’d bottles, clean contrary to Scripture. It is as 
bad as Moses casting down and breaking the Ten 
Commandments. ” 

Then, in the next place, Tom was regarded as a 
sort of renegade. His father had left Kebroyd and 
gone east, to the big towns, and roystered there, and 
had never returned to his native village, not even 
there to lay his bones. Tom had not been born in 
the dale, but at Huddersfield. However, though not 
born and bred under the shadow of Scalefell, he could 
not be counted a stranger, for he was Tom a’ Will’s a’ 
Joe’s a’ Jake’s a’ Nick’s—his genealogy was better 
known than that of Noah, and he was, in right, 
as he was in fact, inalienably, undeniably, Tom a’ 
Tuddlams. 

Tom speedily settled into his little farm. He kept 
on in his service old Matthew, the man who had been 
with his uncle, Nicodemus—Nick a’ Joe’s a’ Jake’s, as 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


78 

he was called. The old man’s advice and assistance 
would be invaluable to him, ignorant of the mode of 
conducting the operations on a farm. Tom had 
Yorkshire energy and self-assurance, and had inherited 
some of his father’s versatility. In a very short time 
he was sure, to use his own expression, he would 
“frame.” The life he had led since his early child¬ 
hood, instead of making him restless, had filled his 
soul with a longing for rest. The incessant change 
in his father’s condition, now in receipt of good wages, 
then with nothing, had made him hunger for a stable 
position, in which he need not be looking forward 
with uneasiness to the future. To have a house not 
rented, but his own ; to have earth under his feet in 
which he could take root, certain not to be upriven 
and displaced, this was to him the most perfect 
happiness that could fall to his lot. It had come to 
him quite unexpectedly, for he had never thought of, 
certainly never reckoned on, Uncle Nick’s acres. 
He had never inquired whether his uncle was married, 
whether he had children. He had never visited him. 
He had not thought of applying to him when out of 
work and in distress. 

Tom was sensible of the beauty of the place where 
his lot had fallen, of the clearness and freshness of 
the air, doubly valued after the smoke that filled the 
atmosphere and sullied every object in the manu¬ 
facturing districts, where all things but water which 
sprang fresh from the earth were dirty, even the grass 
was sooty and the trunks of the trees black as ink. 
It was true that Tuddlams was a lonely spot, but 
Tom did not mind that; he had his Jewel, he wanted 
no other society ; and to Jewel it was well that Tudd- 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 79 

lams was remote from the village inn, for the sake of 
poor, silly Jim. 

Tom loved, admired, almost worshipped Jewel with 
a deeper love, admiration, and religion every day. 
Tom had not had his heart unlocked as a boy. His 
mother had died early, and was to him only a pale 
and characterless reminiscence. His father had 
bullied him, had shown him little affection, or had 
shown what affection he bore in an unpalatable 
fashion. No one else had shown him any regard, and 
be had been brought in contact with no one to whom 
he could cling. Consequently Tom had grown to 
man s estate without having really loved anyone, 
and now that he was married, and possessed both a 
house and a wife of his own, his heart overflowed 
with love for both. He had, it is true, acquired 
also a brother-in-law, but Jim did not inspire him 
with much affection. Jim was the fly in his cup of 
happiness, chiefly because he exacted of Jewel so 
much attention and caused her so much anxiety. 

Silly Jim might have done a hundred useful things 
on the farm, if he could have been kept to his work ; 
but if he was set a task, he began to execute it eagerly, 
then tired, and deserted it. Jim tried Tom’s temper. 
He could not believe that the poor lad was not 
responsible for his actions; he believed that Jewel 
spoiled him by allowing him to have his own way, by 
not being stern with him, and forcing him to adhere 
to his work till it was done. Tom had, without 
knowing it, a strong sense of the beautiful, and Jim 
was so ugly, so untidy and misshapen, that his appear¬ 
ance was offensive to the eye. Tom came to dislike 
the boy, and he had some difficulty in concealing his 


Bo 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


aversion from the sharp eyes of his wife. But though 
he tried to hide his distaste, and believed he had 
effectually covered it, Jewel perceived it. It distressed 
her ; it disappointed her. Her first duty was to Jim, 
who had no one else in the world to care for him ; 
and, she argued, she had given Tom fair warning, 
when he had asked her to take him, that she would 
not go to him without her helpless brother. It was a 
pity—Jim was the spring of trouble that began to 
cloud—only a little, but still a little—the clear current 
of the life and love of Tom and Jule. 

Christmas was at hand—the first Christmas since 
Tom had taken Jule, the first anniversary of their 
wedding day. 

^‘Oh!” thought Tom, “if some excuse or con¬ 
trivance could be got to send that fool, Jim, out of 
the way, what a happy Christmas we should spend ! 
ril get him a mask and send him a-mumming.’’ 

But—“Tom,’' said Jewel, “ we’re bound to have” 
(z>., we must have) “ a Christmas-tree.” 

“Tree ! Why !—there are no bairns, lass.” 

“But there is Jim; it will give him so much 
pleasure. And then, lad, I want to find some’ut as'll 
keep him at home and away from the mummers, and 
the carrolers, and the ale and spirit drinking—poor 
bairn, poor bairn ! Thee’ll get me a tree, wilt thou 
not ? ” 

Tom shrugged his shoulders, and the corners of his 
mouth twitched ; but he said nothing. 

“ Thou doesn’t grudge me a tree ? ” asked Jewel. 

“ / grudge thee anything ! ” he exclaimed. “ Nay, 
I grudge thee naught. Why, lass, if thou’d a fancy 


TOM TUDDLAMS. gi 

for Tuddlams without me, thou should have it, and 
welcome. ” 

“ I don't want Tuddlams without thee. Tuddlams 
and thee goes farrantly (comfortably) well together. 
But to go back to Jim. It is a pity that the beck is 
being dammed up to make a reservoir for the towns 
below—it brings a parcel of navvies and rough chaps 
up near us, and they draw Jim to them, what with 
his curiosity to see what they are doing, and what 
with the fiddling, in which they encourage Jim." 

“ Oh, Jim, Jim—always Jim ! " said Tom impa¬ 
tiently. “ Thou hast no thoughts for nobody or 
nothing, but only Jim." 

“ And why shouldn't I? He’s my brother, and a 
poor, silly, misshaped creature, with no will to earn 
his living, and no looks that nobody should like him. 
If I didn't care for him, who would .? He's my own 
flesh and blood ; and if there be ony truth that man 
and wife are one flesh, then he's now just as much 
thine as mine to fend for. I told thee—I never con¬ 
cealed it one moment—that he who took me, took 
Jim, too.” 

She was hot. A fire sparkled in her eyes, and her 
hand trembled as she scoured a kettle. 

“ I didn't mean offence," said Tom. 

“ Then go out and get the Christmas-tree.” 

“ Yes—for Jim.” 


6 


TOMA’ TUDDLAMS 


%2 


CHAPTER III. 

THE TASTING OF THE TREE. 

Tom went out and fetched first his pick, then his 
shovel. There was a small plantation behind the 
house—a belt of larch, spruce, and Scotch pines, that 
had been put in by Uncle Nick a few years before his 
death. They had not made much growth, for the 
situation was cold ; still, they were sturdy, green 
trees, well rooted. Several could be spared, as they 
had spread and incommoded one another. The larch 
had shed its leaves, the Scotch boughs turned up, clad 
in spines all round, but the spruce would serve the 
required purpose. 

Snow had fallen, and had to be shovelled away, 
but the ground was not frozen. Tom chose a tree, 
and then began to clear the snow from about it. 
Tom was not only fond of, he was proud of Jewel. 
He wondered at her cleverness. She fitted into the 
house as if the house had been made for her, like a 
set of clothes. She fell into the duties as if they had 
been familiar to her from infancy ; she seemed to 
know by instinct what should be done in a farmhouse 
—she who had lived in a cottage in a row all her girl¬ 
hood ! But, love and admire her as he did, he could 
not love Jim ; and he felt jealous of the poor idiot 
because the boy occupied so large a share in the 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


83 

thoughts and affections of his wife. Men are said to 
be most selfish animals, and Tom was no exception; 
he was very selfish in this one particular : he wanted 
his wife to think, and consider, and work for himself 
alone. He was not a man to analyse his feelings, and 
he was therefore supremely unconscious that he was 
jealous. The boy annoyed him—he disliked him ; 
but he did not attempt to account for his repugnance. 

“ Jule wants the tree for Jim. Shoo ” (she) “ never 
for a moment thought I might like it. I never had a 
Christmas-tree in my life—no, never. Father wasn’t 
the man for that. He never thought of one. Why 
shouldn’t I have my tree.? I suppose I’m to find the 
tree, and the trouble, and the candles, and the gim- 
cracks, and the gilt nuts and apples for that Jim. 
And I know that Jule is knitting him a muffle for his 
throat, and warm gloves, and stockings, and shoo 
hasn’t a thought for my comforts no more than for 
my pleasures. Why should not Jule think that I 
might like a tree? ’Tisn’t the tree itsen,” said Tom, 
impatiently driving the pick into the ground—“’tis 
the consideration. Why, if Jule were to light a tal¬ 
low-candle-end in the lantern, and say it was done 
for me. I’d kiss her and be pleased. And now, here 
I be digging and pulling up a tree only for Jim. She 
said it—‘only for Jim.’ ’Tis unhuman.” 

He was unjust ; but is not jealousy always unjust ? 
Does it not always jaundice the eyes that they see 
falsely, black spots dancing in clear air, and lines 
crooked that are perfectly straight ? 

Tom was working himself up into an angry, resent¬ 
ful mood about nothing. The day was cold enough 
for him to have thought coolly of the matter, and 


84 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


seen how absurd it was of him to be in dudgeon over 
so small a thing. Was it possible that Jewel could 
for a moment entertain the thought that her husband, 
a man standing six feet, with hair on his face, with 
a gruff voice, aged twenty-four, very nearly a quarter 
of a century old, a landed proprietor, could fret for a 
Christmas-tree ? If he had considered the matter im¬ 
partially, he would have perceived that he was mak¬ 
ing himself ridiculous. He vented his ill-humour on 
the roots of the spruce; he hacked through them. 
“ Of course,” he said, “ Tm expected to spoil one of 
my beautifullest trees—just for Jim ! ” Then, after 
another peevish dig at the roots, he growled, “ But 
I won’t. Why should I spoil my tree, that Uncle 
Nick planted, just for that lout? I’ll dig all round 
it, and have it up roots and all, and plant it again 
when Jule has done with it. I won’t have even a 
spruce spoiled for Jim. He ain’t worth it; a fiddling 
idiot! ” 

Just as he had got the tree up—a pretty, well-built 
tree about three feet six inches high—he heard a cough 
behind him, and turning, saw Matthew by the hedge. 

“ Aught fresh, old man ? ” asked Tom. 

“ Over-fresh,” answered Matthew, laconically. 

What do you mean ? Am I wanted ? ” 

“ Eh ! I should just think you were.” 

‘‘ What has happened ? ” 

“ Fine laikes wi’ Jim.” 

“ What has Jim done now?” 

“ There’s nort like a fellow seeing the unpleasant 
through his own eyes.” 

Tom threw down his pick and shovel, and, grasping 
the little fir-tree just above the root, walked to the 


TOMA* TUDDLAMS. 85 

house, after signing to the man to bring in the tools 
after him. 

As he came in at the back door, and stood holding 
the same, knocking the snow off his boots, he heard 
voices in the front kitchen or “ house.” 

Carrying the tree, he pushed through the door, and 
saw a couple of men standing in the room, broad- 
shouldered fellows, and Silly Jim cast at their feet. 
Tom looked first at the men, then at his wife for an 
explanation. Jewel was sobbing. 

The case was not one that needed much explana¬ 
tion. Jim had been down to the reservoir, had fiddled 
to the navvies there employed, had been treated 
by them to gin and water, and had been made 
tipsy. 

The men had brought him up, and they looked at 
Jewel and Tom with a pleased and also expectant ex¬ 
pression. Their consciences told them they had done 
a good thing in bringing Jim home, and said no word 
of reproach to them for having brought him to a con¬ 
dition in which he was unable, without assistance, to 
reach his home. The glory of a contented, approving 
conscience beamed in their rough faces. A good deed 
always deserves, and almost demands, a reward, and 
the two navvies in their warmth of self-satisfaction 
waited for the feel of money in their palms and the 
offer of brandy neat, or, at least, ale and cake, as re¬ 
freshment after their exertions. 

Tom took in the situation at a glance. Of course 
he must reward the men, though little deserving. 
He signed to Jewel to bring out the cake and the 
“haver-bread ”(oat scones), and to put butter on the 
table, whilst he filled ^ jug with beer 


86 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


“Sit you down/' he said sulkily to the men. 
‘ ‘ There's a shilling a-piece for you, and it is the last 
ril spend in this way. The lad would not be drunk 
unless you^d given him the liquor. Til teach him 
not to go near you again. ” 

He said no more till the men had done eating. 
The haver-bread is oatcake thin as biscuit, baked on 
a griddle, and hung up on strings in the ceiling. The 
men ate heartily, voraciously; bread, cake, and 
butter flew, and they drank the ale as though they 
had drunk nothing for twenty-four hours and had fed 
on herrings and salt pork. Then they drew their 
hands across their lips, and each, thrusting his plate 
before him, said, “ Tm full; ” and one said condescend¬ 
ingly : 

“ 1 don’t think, now, as I’ve iver enjoyed myself 
more, not even at a hanging.” 

Tom said nothing. He waited till the men were 
gone, then he called angrily to the boy : 

“ Get up ! ” 

Jim was somewhat recovered ; the jolting of the 
journey, and the time it had taken, had combined to 
somewhat sober him, and he obeyed. He had a 
great mouth, like that of a fish, and he grinned at 
Tom ; but the grin died away as he saw the ex¬ 
pression on Tom s face, and the boy had sufticient 
mother-wit to understand what that meant. He 
began to whimper. 

“Come, Jim, get to bed,” said his sister, going up 
to him. She was engaged clearing away the re¬ 
mains of the men’s meal. “Do, to please your 
Jule.” 

“ Give me a drink first,’ pleaded Jim. 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


87 

Tom said roughly, “Stand up ! ” and he caught the 
lad by the collar of his coat and pulled him to his 
feet. Jewel was back in the kitchen. 

“Jim,” said Tom, “ I won't allow these goings on. 
Thou'rt not going to bring discredit on my house, 
and unhappiness on thy sister, and stir me to anger, 
not if I can help it. If thou doesn’t leariv mastery 
over thysen, I must teach it thee. Look here, Jim. 
Dost thou see this tree ? ’Tis a Christmas tree Jule 
made me go and dig up for thee. A Christmas tree 
hung with apples and nuts is for good chaps, and not 
for bad. It’s not for them that demean themselves, 
and make beasts o’ themselves, as thou hast a' been 
doing. 1 don’t wish to give thee a hiding, lad, but I 
must, to teach thee what thou must not do. And 
so—I’ll make thee taste o’ this tree o' knowledge of 
good and evil, wrong way on, sour end, afore Christ¬ 
mas comes.’’ 

And with that he brought tile Christmas tree whislv 
ing, slashing, crackling, about the boy’s back. It 
did not hurt him. It could not hurt him. Tom knew 
that very well. It made much noise, and there was 
a great deal of it, but it could not raise a welt m his 
skin anywhere. Tom did not design to hurt him, 
only to frighten him, as a parent chastises his young 
child with a newspaper. But the shrieks that Jim 
uttered, the leaps, the writhings he made, would have 
led anyone to suppose he was being scourged with 
scorpions. 

Jewel rushed from the back kitchen into the room, 
and stood for a moment paralysed with horror ; then, 
with a cry of wrath, she rushed on her husband, her 
cheeks flaming, her eyes flaring, and wrenched her 


88 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


brother out of his hand. She trod on the end of the 
spruce, and, clutching it, tore the root away from his 
grasp. 

“ How dare you ! ” she gasped. 

Jim staggered back, howling and sobbing. 

‘ ‘ How dare you—you coward ! you base, mean 
coward ! ” she crieid, facing her husband, without a 
spark of love in her face, without a token of relenting 
in her tone. Her blood boiled, and every scrap of 
control she had over her tongue was lost. She was 
like a tigress defending her cub. 

“Jule,'’said Tom, ‘'be reasonable. Jim must be 
punished if he does wrong.” 

“ But not by you ! ” gasped Jule. “ Not by you. 
Is this what I and my poor brother are to expect in 
your house.? ” 

“ I have not hurt him.” 

“You have. Do not add a lie to your wrong. 
Cruel and false—that is what you are ! 1 curse the 

day that ever 1 came under your roof! I curse the 
day that ever 1 saw your face—if this is what is in store 
for me and Jim. Come to me, Jim ; come to your 
sister. She will take care of you, and defend you 
with her arms against brutal men. And—I tell you 
this, Tom ; if ever you dare—you dare—you dare”— 
she quivered with rage, she panted foi breath, she 
stamped her foot—“if ever you dare lay hands on 
my own poor afflicted Jim again. I’ll carry him in my 
arms, and run away, and leave you forever. Thank 
God, I have hands, and can earn my living. It may 
be only six shillings a week, but I’d rather live on 
crusts with Jim, and drink water, and toil eight, or 
nine, or ten hours a day than stay here to be slave- 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. S() 

driven by you—you, a strong man, beating a defence¬ 
less, helpless innocent !" 

Tom was speechless with astonishment. In a 
moment his loving, his true Jule was converted into 
a savage, hostile virago. 

To reason with her was impossible. She was not 
in a condition to listen to reason. She was not her¬ 
self; she was as one possessed. 

“Jule,” said Tom, looking sadly at the Christmas- 
tree that lay on the floor, “ if I have done wrong, I 
am sorry ; but I think I am not to blame.” 

“ No,” said she scornfully; “men will never allow 
they’re to blame. It is we—we feeble lasses—who’re 
in the wrong.” 

He went up to her. 

“Jewel, I do not understand thee.’^ 

“ I am sorry I have not spoken plain. 

She threw herself into a chair, ar.d folded her arms. 

‘Jewel, forgive and forget. Give me thy hand, 
lass. This be Christmas eve, when there should be 
‘ peace on earth and good-will among men,’ most of 
all in a home between man and wife. ” 

“ No,” she said ; “ there shall be no peace between 
us, no good-will.” 

Then he turned, opened the door, and went out. 


17 


90 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 



CHAPTER IV. 

A PEACE-OFFERING. 

Tom a’ Tuddlams left the house. He walked away 
down the valley without any clear idea whither he 
was going or what he wanted to do. He left the 
house because he could not breathe in it; he could 
not endure it, whilst his Jewel was in this new and 
wondrous mood. His temples throbbed, his hands 
were clenched, and a sombre flicker was in his eyes. 
He had been married for one year, a year less a day, 
and had been perfectly happy—so happy that he had 
sometimes felt that he could not bear an accession to 
his happiness. We do, at times, become aware of a 
happiness so acute that it almost touches on pain—so 
supreme that we cannot laugh, we are disposed to cry. 
It had been so with Tom ; his cup had brimmed. 
Jim, as already said, had been the fly in it; but a 
small fly, only a gnat floating in a very brimming 
cup. And now that gnat had tilted the goblet and 
poured forth all its contents! Tom had been so 
happy that he now felt his disappointment, his 
misery with double poignancy. 

How cruel, how wicked, how unjust Jewel had 
been !' He had not hurt that odious, yelping idiot, 
he had not meant to hurt, only to scare him. He 
had chastised him for his good—to deter him from 
again drinking with the navvies and becoming drunk. 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


91 


Jewel was spoiling- the boy ; she remonstrated with 
him, but remonstrance was thrown away on him : he 
was not rational, he must be made to feel, like an ass 
or a dog, when he did wrong. Jewel would, in the 
end, be the sufferer unless Jim were corrected and 
disciplined. 

How unfair it was of Jewel to stand in the way ! 
How short-sighted she was ! Her conduct encour¬ 
aged the boy in wrong-doing. A sense of anger 
against Jewel simmered in Tom’s heart. 

He walked fast, his feet stamped in the snow, he 
set them so hardly, firmly, as he trampled his way 
down the valley. The simmering wrath in his heart 
rose and boiled over. Let her go ! He clenched 
his hands and teeth. Let her go ! How dare she in¬ 
sult him by such words as to call him a coward and 
a liar! A coward—he a coward! he laughed out. 
He knew his own heart, his strength of purpose. He, 
a liar ! He, who would be torn to pieces rather than 
speak a word that was not true ! It would have been 
bad, had a man called him cruel and false; bad for 
the man who had thus designated him. He would 
have taken him by the throat and shaken him, and 
shaken him till he shook the teeth out of his mouth, 
the hair off his head, the nails from his finger-ends, 
and the eyes from their sockets. Tom stood still : 
he was trembling with emotion—with wrath. His 
knees smote together. He was thinking how he 
would deal with the man who spoke to him as his 
wife had spoken. But there was the terrible rankle 
of the words : he could not resent them, for they were 
spoken bjy his wife. Those dear lips he had so often 
kissed, that heart in which he thought he reigned 


92 


TOM 7UDDLAMS, 


sole and altogether—they had poured forth the wicked 
words which entered into him as a searching knife 
cutting his heart. 

He came to the reservoir, then to the dam ; at that 
point there was a tavern recently built, and opened 
for the entertainment first of the navvies engaged on 
the works, and then was to serve for the refreshment 
of the visitors who came to fish and boat in the reser¬ 
voir, or Scalefell lake, as it was called. 

When Tom came opposite the door of the tavern, he 
halted. A strong impulse came on him to go in, 
sit with the navvies there, drink, smoke, laugh, sing 
songs, and tell tales, and forget his misery. He was 
conscious of his utter loneliness. He had shown him¬ 
self indifferent to the society of the neighbours, be¬ 
cause he was perfectly satisfied with that of Jewel; 
and now that Jewel had turned on him, and stung 
him, he was alone, he had no friend. But the im¬ 
pulse to enter and drown his grief was but momen¬ 
tary. He was angry with Jim for going there, he 
had chastised him for drinking, and should he do 
the very thing he had objected to in the idiot? 

He shook his head and walked on. 

“Yes,’’ he said, “there is some excuse for the fool, 
but none for the sane man ! ” 

And then, strangely, the wheel of his mind went 
round and his mood altered. He had been accus¬ 
tomed to his father’s bad humours, had made allow¬ 
ances for them, and had schooled himself to patience 
under them ; and now the old discipline began to tell 
on him, and his wrath faded away. What gave his 
mind the turn were those words he used about Jim, 
as he went past the tavern. He began to think of 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


93 


Jim, and he admitted to himself that Jim was not 
seriously to blame. Then he thought how that Jewel 
had not been in the room when he laid hold of the 
boy and struck him with the Christmas-tree. Jim 
had howled ear-piercingly. Jewel came in, fright¬ 
ened by the cry, and thought her brother had been 
more hurt than he really was. After all, it was nat¬ 
ural that she should take the side of her brother— 
that she should defend the weak and suffering. What 
would he have had.? asked Tom of himself. Would 
he have had Jewel stand coldly by and tell hirh how 
many cuts the lad was to receive .? No, that would 
be unlike Jewel. No, by ginger ! he would not have 
endured that in Jewel ! Why, that would have been 
worse than her firing up at his laying his hand on the 
boy. There was something grand, womanly, in 
Jewel defending Jim—Jim, who had no other protec¬ 
tor in the world but she. There was really some¬ 
thing noble in the way in which she threw in her lot 
with the poor, fond creature ; she was ready—she 
said it—rather than that he should be maltreated, to 
leave her comfortable, beautiful home, and trudge 
back to a factory town, and work again in a worsted 
mill and earn her six shillings a week, which she 
would freely divide with her brother. Give up Tud- 
dlams! Tom considered. Really, Jewel was a 
wonderful woman ; he had never hitherto realised 
her greatness of soul. 

And then Tom remembered his own train of thought 
as he dug up the tree, how jealous he had been of the 
poor idiot, how absurdly vexed he had been because 
the tree was destined for Jim and not for himself. 
“ Why, Lor ! ” said Tom, standing still; “all the trees 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


94 

in the plantation are mine. Tuddlams is mine, so are 
the fields and the pastures, so are the sheep and the 
cow, and the grey mare. Everything is mine. Shoo 
couldn’t give me what was my own ! Shoo simply 
axed me to give that darned boy one out of the 
hundred or two hundred, or may be five hundred, 
trees in my plantation, and I begrudged it him ! Gor ! 
what a chap made up of selfishness I be ! ” 

But, although Tom a’ Tuddlams thus debated with 
himself, and extenuated Jewel’s fault, and stood her 
advocate against his outraged feelings, he only half 
convinced himself that she was in the right and he in 
the wrong. He threw the cloak of forgetfulness over 
her bitter words. Yet they worked their way through, 
scratched and bit and tore their way through, and 
were again before him in all their unkindness and 
injustice. 

“I suppose there was wrong o’ both sides,” said 
Tom uneasily. “ I’m sure there must ha’ been wrong 
on mine.” He had had no experience of women’s 
anger, of female temper, and he did not know how 
long the storm at home would last; whether, when he 
went home, he would find Jewel subdued with self- 
consciousness, in tears, and ready to kiss and make 
up the breach, or whether the evil temper were 
still tossing and threatening, possessing and unex¬ 
pelled. 

“There can be no harm in my bringing her sum- 
mat,” he said. “It is Christmas eve, and I’ll give 
her a Christmas present, and—by George I will !— 
I’ll get a packet of yellow, and green, and red, and 
blue tapers for the tree. Shoo’ll be fain at that, and 
ready with her forgiveness.” 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


95 


He was now in the village of Kebroyd. When I 
call it a village, I do it a dishonour; it was one of 
those hobbledehoy villages that are almost towns and 
yet not quite towns. There was no gas in the streets. 

As Tom entered Kebroyd he saw a cluster of men 
and women about a cottage, and beside the door, on 
a table, stood a man haranguing. 

“A political lecturer, or a teetotal or a ranter 
chap,” said Tom ; but on nearer approach he 
heard :— 

‘ ‘ Going, dirt cheap ! What ! for this beautiful 
looking-glass no higher bid than one shilling? I’ll 
tell you what it is, the gentlemen don’t want to look 
at their faces, and so they won’t bid, and as for the 
ladies, they are provided already, and think the most 
beautiful of mirrors are the eyes of their admiring 
husbands and lovers. But, nevertheless, I urge you 
not to be shy of making a bid. Why, this looking- 
glass cost 15 s. 6 d., if it cost a penny, when it was 
new. Real mahogany, and not a scratch, and—see 
the size of the glass. It is too ridiculous, only one 
shilling. Thank you, marm, eighteenpence. Are we 
to strike it down to you, marm, for that absurd sum ? 
Two shillings. This gentleman with a red tie” (he 
was a navvy) “ has bid another sixpence that he may 
be able to tie a stylish bow every day when he goes 
out courting.” 

An auction was in progress. The occupants of 
No. 14 Reservoir Road had failed, and were leaving, 
and their furniture was being sold before the house. 

“ I daresay,” proceeded the auctioneer, “ many of 
you ladies have been disappointed in your looking- 
glasses. The knobs on which they swing have a 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


96 

tendency to come off, and the screw gets loose, and 
when you want to look at your beautiful hair and 
eyes, then the mirror is swinging so that it shows 
nothing but your toes. Now I beg you all to ob¬ 
serve how—thank you, marm, half-a-crown—how, I 
was going to say, how easily this turns on its 
pivots, and how it always stands at the angle at 
which you want it. Three shillings, yes—going for 
three shillings. Now, let me see, this is Christmas 
eve; Tm sure for certain there are some of you who 
want to make a Christmas present to your wives 
or sweethearts. There’s nothing a woman likes 
better than a looking-glass. It is meat and drink to 
her. Let us suppose you’ve had a domestic breeze or 
a lover’s quarrel. Do you want to make it up .? To 
lay the storm } Buy the looking-glass, and present 
the lady with it; and you will see the waves go 
down and become smooth as though oil were poured 
on ’em. Eh.? sir ! ” 

“Three and six.” 

“Three and six you are, sir. I beg pardon, is it 
Tom a’ Tuddlams.? Tom a’ Tuddlams it is. Tom 
a’ Tuddlams has bid three and six for a mirror for 
Jewel a’ Nort a’ Nowheer, and a more beautiful and 
smiling and sweet face than hers to look into it is not 
to be seen. Or, do I stand corrected } If any 
gentleman thinks he knows a beautifuller one, let him 
bid four shillings, or forever hold his silence.” 

“Four shillings.” 

‘ ‘ Right—four shillings ; now, sir ? ” 

“ Four and six,” said Tom. 

“ Five shillings.” 

“Five and six,” said Tom. 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


97 

And at five and six the mahogany swinging look- 
ir^gf-glass was struck down to him. 

Tom went on into the village and visited the 
grocers shop, where he purchased some coloured 
tapers for the tree, and nuts and oranges, and sweet- 
stuff" ; and also some little tin or lead ornaments to 
^/^ang on the tree and make it glitter. 

Thus supplied, with his pockets stuffed, he put a 
bit of cord around the mirror, fastened it to his large 
pdcket-handkerchief, where it passed over the wood, 
to prevent chafing, and so slung the great looking- 
glass across his back, and trudged up the glen home¬ 
wards to Tuddlams. 

The trouble was gone from his mind now, the 
weight from his heart. Now he was bringing home 
to Jewel a beautiful Christmas present, which would 
delight her, and prove to her that he bore no ill-will 
for the cruel words she had launched at him. 

He chuckled as he strode along. He thought how 
pleased she would be. He pictured her waiting im¬ 
patiently for him, longing to make up the little 
quarrel, of her flying to his arms and clinging to him, 
and cuddling into his breast with sobs of penitence 
and of love, as he opened the door when he came in. 

He was rudely undeceived. 

As he came unexpectantly into the house, Jewel 
started up— 

Tom ! there ! this comes of your cruelty ! Jim is 
run away and we cannot find him. What have you 
got there ? A looking-glass ! What folly and waste 
of money ! Put it down and run—see if you can find 
where Jim is.” 


7 


98 


TOM A'^ TUDDLAMS. 


CHAPTER V. 

ON THE FELLS. 

Yes, Jim had run away, and taken his fiddle with 
him. At first Jewel had not thought much of his 
disappearance. She had sent old Matthew down to 
the reservoir ; but Jim had not gone in that direction. 
Night had fallen and the boy was not returned. 

There was nothing for it but to search for him. 
He could not be left straying about the fells all night. 
He would be dead before morning. 

“ You must go after him,” said Jewel. “ Put on a 
great-coat and take a lantern—Jim must be found.” 

“You do not know in which direction he has 
gone ? ” 

“Matthew said he saw footprints in the snow 
going towards Arncliff.” 

Tom saw that it was necessary that Jim should be 
pursued. Matthew was too old to do that. He must 
go after the boy himself 

“The night will be bad; there’s a bank of black 
cloud over Houghfell full of snow, ready to shake 
out its feathers.” 

“Then, make haste,” urged Jewel. “If the snow 
comes on thou’lt not be able to trace him.” 

She took a shepherd’s pouch and put into it a 
flask of brandy, a box of lucifers, and a second 
candle. 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


99 

“If he is lost,” said Jewel, “I will never forgive 
thee. Unless thou had ill-treated him, he’d never 
have run away.” 

Tom heaved a sigh—he was disappointed ; still he 
made an excuse for Jewel. She was alarmed for the 
safety of her brother. His heart was heavy when he 
went forth in the night with the lantern in quest of the 
missing lad. 

The tracks noticed by Matthew as diverging from 
the road were a little way down near a stone called 
the “ Loaf,” from a fancied resemblance to one. 

Matthew accompanied him thus far. “I thowt;” 
said the old man, “he’d a’ gone after liquor and fire, 
and not up into the fells, which shows he’s more of a 
fool than I believed.” 

The old man offered to accompany his master in 
the search, but Tom declined his assistance. “In 
the dark one pair of eyes are as good as two,” he 
said. Then holding the lantern to the snow, he 
followed the traces. “ Mind the pot-hoyles ! ” shouted 
Matthew. The Yorkshire moors are dangerous, in 
parts, to traverse by one unacquainted with them, 
and even dapgerous to go over by one who knows 
them, in the dark, for in addition to the usual risks 
of loss of way, there is the special peril of falling 
into the so-called “pot-holes.” These are natural 
shafts descending into the bowels of the mountains, 
often of great depth, and all gaping with assurance 
of certain death to anyone who should incautiously 
fall into their treacherous jaws. 

The mountains are built up of limestone, and in 
the limestone are numerous caverns running horizon¬ 
tally, through which, at one time, streams were dis- 


lOO 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


charged. But all the caverns are not horizontal; 
some are vertical, caused by the fall of the crust above 
a subterranean vault, but the water has worked its 
way to a lower level, and now runs out at a consider¬ 
able depth beneath the deserted and dry channel, or 
else the shaft has been worked through some fault in 
the limestone by a descending stream, and it precipi¬ 
tates itself into the well that engulfs it and conceals 
its further course. 

If Jewel had but greeted him lovingly, put her arms 
about his neck, and entreated him, as he loved her, 
to go in search of her brother, Tom would have started 
on his quest with alacrity and a hopeful heart; but 
her reception had been chilling. She had taken no 
notice of his looking-glass, as she had been too much 
engrossed in her anxiety, and her ill-humour had not 
spent itself: she charged her husband with having 
driven the poor fool forth—perhaps to his death. 

If Jim were to die, to fall into a pot-hole, to sink in 
the snow, Tom feared that Jewel would never forgive 
him—that it would totally destroy his married hap¬ 
piness. To escape such a contingency, it was neces¬ 
sary for him to find Jim, and this urged him on as 
much as his desire to help the unfortunate, half-witted 
creature. 

Jim’s course had been erratic. He had gone along 
without any notion whither he would direct his steps. 
His traces led in a zigzag course, now up the hill 
then at a slant to the north, then they turned down- 
words, to where were rocks, among which Tom lost 
them. 

He was obliged to search long before he could pick 
up the trace again. He looked up at the sky. The 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


lOI 


clouds were black above, but then his eyes were 
dazzled with the glare of the lantern on the snow, 
and he could not tell whether they had spread and 
were about to discharge their burden. 

He stood still and shouted. He waited ; he received 
no answer. He shouted again and again in vain. 
Then he went on, bent, holding the lantern to the 
snow, following the course of the steps. Suddenly 
he stared and shrank aside. There was a broad, 
black, snowless disc near at hand. He held up his 
lantern over his head. It was a pot—he believed, 
but dared not approach nearer. The traces of the 
boy led along the verge. A foot to the right would 
have precipitated him down the abyss. 

“ There is a providence over bairns and fools,'" 
said Tom. “ If God were not bound" (going) “ to 
save him he'd have gone down there. But—wherever 
,can I be F " When he had passed the dangerous spot 
he stood still to consider. He was out of his reckon¬ 
ing altogether. He had not the smallest notion where 
he was. He had gone on, looking intently at the 
traces, without considering whither they led ; and, 
indeed, the night had become so dark that he might 
have lost himself soon had he not been thus pre¬ 
occupied. “ Let me see," said Tom, “ there's Hull 
Pot, and there's the Ox Hole, and there's Scale Pot, 
and the Boggarts' Well—whichever of all these was 
it that I've gone by ? " 

He went on, shaking his head. 

“ I'm flayed " (afraid) “ I've lost mysen," said he. 

“There'll be nowt for it but when I've found him 
we must come back the same way.'" 

He considered. 


102 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


“ I must be certain not to go down the pot-hole 
with him here/’ He took out a red pocket-handker¬ 
chief and threw it down on the snow. “ There, when 
I come to that, I’ll remember to walk more cautiously, 
because we’ll be close to the pot.” 

Again he stopped and walked on ; and now saw 
flakes of snow sail lightly as eider-down into the flare 
of the lamp. First a solitary flake, very large ; then 
several; and, after a minute or two, the snow came 
down fast and thick. 

“Now I’m beat,” said Tom. “In a varra few 
moments all the foot-taps will be covered over, and 
how shall I find my way on after Jim, or, missing 
him, find my way back.? That was a bad hour for 
me when I dug up the Christmas-tree ; if I hadn’t 
had the tree I shouldn’t, maybe, have whacked him 
with it. And now we shall both be lost on the fells 
all along of it. However, it is no use considering ; I 
must go on after the lad while I can mark where he’s 
set his foot.” 

There was little or no wind. In the still, dark 
night the flakes came down thickly ; they came into 
the depressions made in the old snow, blurred their 
edge, and began to choke them up. Fortunately, 
the boy had dragged his feet heavily, as if weary ; 
and so had drawn a furrow ; and this furrow was 
traceable for a while. It went in the same random, 
doubling, zigzag, purposeless way as before. Where 
a dark rock had appeared, the boy had made for it in 
the dusk ; and then had turned away from it again, 
finding it to be only a rock affording no shelter. 

The way became steep, steeper; a sharp, scram¬ 
bling ascent—to what could it lead } Then came a 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


103 


slip or shoot of snow where the boy had gone down ; 
and below a trampled mass, where he had rolled about, 
struggled up, and at length gone on again. Whither ? 
Tom hunted about and could not find. There was a 
tract of rubble on which no footprints could be dis¬ 
tinguished, and what snow lay on it was dotted on 
the lumps of stone. 

What was Tom to do ? He began to be uneasy 
about himself as well as Jim. He had been walking 
along time ; how long he could not tell—he had lost 
the count of time. He had gone a long way ; how 
far he could not tell—the direction had changed so 
often. He might have crossed the neck between 
Scale and Hough fells and be in Lancashire, or he 
might be near his home ; he could not tell. He put 
the lantern behind him, and covered his brow with his 
hand, and looked through the night and falling snow 
to see if he could distinguish anywhere a light. If he 
saw a light he would make for it—it might be his 
home ; if not it did not matter—he would ask for 
help, and a party would scour the moor for the poor 
lost boy. 

Not a light could he see. Had there been an 
illumined window a mile away he could not have 
seen it, for the snow thickly descending formed an 
impenetrable veil. 

“ Blow that Christmas tree—that’s done it! ” said 
Tom, and suddenly turned. He heard something far 
above him—a shrill strain. In his sudden turn he 
struck the lantern with the lappel of his coat; it went 
over and bounded down the steep—for a moment as 
a flying rocket, and then was dark. 

“Here’s a worse go than all!” groaned Tom. 


104 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


“Now Tm without lantern, and whativer in the world 
shall I do ? " 

Then, again, above him, he heard the same weird, 
shrill sounds—the strain ; 

“Christian, awake ! salute the happy morn, 

Whereon the Saviour of the world was born.” 

“That'S Jim ! ” shouted Tom ; “ and like his mad 
ways : fiddling in a winter night—in the snow—lost.” 

He resumed the scramble, guided by the sound, 
and soon found himself against the face of a rock. 
Still he could hear the notes of the violin more now 
to his left, and he groped his way slowly, cautiously 
along, now almost sliding down or falling over a pro¬ 
jecting stone, till his hand pressed against nothing, 
and here the strains sounded so articulate and loud 
that Tom was sure he was close to the boy. 

“ Jim ! ” he called, “ are you under shelter .? ” 

“ Eh, be that thee, Tom } ” 

“ Yes—come after thee. Where art thou? ” 

“In a sort of a hoyle.” 

“ A cave ? ” 

Tom felt with his hands and feet, then he groped his 
way forward; the boy had ceased fiddling. 

“Go on playing, Jim ; I can see nowt.” 

Again the instrument twanged. 

“ It is a cave thou art in. Is it large ? ” 

“ I dun’ know.” 

Tom put his hand in the pouch and produced the 
candle and the match box. He struck a light and 
kindled the tallow candle. He was obliged to hold 
his hand over the flame, for there was enough air stir- 


TOM TUDDL A MS. 


105 

ring to blow it out if unprotected, and thus imper¬ 
fectly he reconnoitred the place. 

Jim had taken refuge in a small cave in the face of 
a limestone scar—a cave rounded and smoothed with 
water, but dry. It ran some way in'. As Tom looked 
about, he saw that there was dry fern and heather 
piled up against the side. Others before Jim had 
gone there and had used it for shelter—perhaps from 
sun or wind—and had collected material to make soft 
cushions, 

“Why, Jim,” said Tom, “we're in luck's way. 
I've a light and here's fuel. We'll have a fire, lad; 
I’m sure thou'rt cold.” 

“Eh! I am, Tom. I fiddled to keep my fingers 
warm.” 

Tom put a light to the bracken, but it was damp 
and would not readily burn. He swealed the tallow 
over it, and at length coaxed it into a blaze ; then it 
flared up, and he^ looked around. The light and the 
smoke alarmed some birds or bats—he could not 
make out which—in the recesses. They fluttered and 
danced about, and then, as the smoke became thicker, 
rushed forth. 

“ It's boggarts 1'' said Jim ; “that's why I played 
a hymn. I heard them before you came.” 

“They are gone now, Jim.” 

Tom considered what was to be done. There was 
a possibility of rescue, if he could keep the fire burn¬ 
ing ; it would guide searchers to the spot where he 
was. But, supposing no searchers came out or came 
that way, and Jim and he had to remain there till 
morning, they would need the fire to keep them from 
being frozen. 


to6 tom A’ TUDDLAMS. 

“Jim/' said Tom ; “we must have more heather. 
Where can we get it ? ” 

“There’s that near the mouth of the hoyle,” said 
the boy. He crept out, and soon returned with some 
heather. There was plenty without that could be 
ripped up. 

“That will do, Jim,” said Tom ; “anyhow, for a 
bit.” Then he took the brandy flask and uncorked 
it. “ Open thy mouth, lad. ” He gave him a draught 
of the spirit. ‘ ‘ Now keep by the fire and warm thy 
limbs. I’ll fend the fire.” 

Tom sat over the glow, raking it together, adding 
fresh fuel as required, and did not speak. He was 
now thinking of Jewel. He knew that she must be 
anxious about him, and in great distress. What 
would she do when she found that he did not return ? 
She would send down to the reservoir for some of the 
navvies. Jewel had her wits about her, and would 
not lose her head in an emergency. “ She don’t lose 
her head,” murmured Tom, “ but she’s got a way of 
losing her temper.” 

“I say”—Jim interrupted his train of thought— 
“ thou won’t take away my fiddle, wilt thou } ” 

‘ ‘ Jule said thou wouldst if I got fresh. That’s why 
I runned away.” 

“That is why you ran away,” repeated Tom. 
“ Not because I beat thee.? ” 

“ No,” the boy giggled ; “ thou didn’t hurt much. 
But I hollered and Jule came up. Thou won’t take 
away my fiddle ? ” 

“No—certainly no.” 

The boy was satisfied, and said no more. 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


107 


Then again Tom sank into a train of thought. So 
Jewel had been scolding and threatening Jim ; and it 
was her doing that he had taken flight. 

But this consideration did not occupy him long. 
He was relieved by it. It would simplify the recon¬ 
ciliation. He was cold, very cold, for the frosty, 
snowy air breathed in from the entrance. The fire 
was a poor affair. He must husband his material, 
burning a little dry heather along with some of the 
wet and fresh, so that there issued from his fire more 
smoke than flame. Still, he must be thankful to have 
any fire. Occasionally he put on some bracken to 
produce a flare, in the hopes of attracting attention. 
The smouldering damp heather did not emit much 
light. Then he went to the entrance of the cave and 
looked out. The snow was not falling as thickly. In 
half an hour it might cease altogether, and then through 
the darkness he would be able to see lights. That 
would be a comfort; though he could not venture to 
leave where he was till the day dawned. Lights at 
night are treacherous. They may be very far off, and 
gulfs and impassable rivers may intervene. 

Tom came back to the fire. Jim had sunk beside 
it, and was asleep. The flicker of the fire was on his 
paleface. Tom leaned over to observe it. Poor boy, 
he was to be pitied, not blamed. As Tom looked, he 
saw that the uppei portion of the lad’s face was very 
like Jule’s—the same forehead and delicately-drawn, 
gold-brown eyebrows. What long lashes Jim had ! 
In his sleep the feebleness was effaced from his 
countenance, and there was a delicacy in the features, 
and even a beauty, which was not perceived when he 
was awake. “ How like Jewel I How like Jewel I ” 


io8 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


said Tom, and his heart grew soft and warm and 
loving within him towards the poor boy. 

“He’ll take cold. He looks deadly white,” said 
Tom, and he pulled off his great-coat and laid it over 
the sleeper. “ Poor Jim ! I wish I’d noticed before 
he hadn’t his overcoat. ” 

And, as he drew off his warm garment, he noticed 
by a flicker of the fire a long amber thread—long, a 
yard long—caught in the rough cloth. 

“One of Jule’s hairs,” he said, and took it and 
twined it round his finger, and kissed it and smiled, 
and held it to the light, and kissed it again. ‘ ‘ Dear 
Jule I dear Jule 1 ” 


TOM TUBDLAMS. 


109 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE JOVIAL heckler’s BOY. 

A SHOUT ! Tom started from his reverie, threw on a 
handful of dry fern-leaves, and ran to the entrance. 

Men with lanterns were below, apparently a long 
way down, and they called, and he replied. Then 
Tom ran back into the cave and roused Jim, who 
with difficulty rallied his scattered dream-laden wits ; 
and Tom noticed that when he opened his eyes and 
great mouth, at once all likeness to Jewel disap¬ 
peared. He was again ugly and loutish. But Tom 
had a pity for him, and a love he had not felt before. 
He had felt what it was to have to care for a poor, 
helpless creature ; and he had seen in the dull face 
the underlying likeness to her who was dearest to 
him in the world. 

He helped the boy to his feet. 

“ What is’t, Tom ? Thou’rt not going to take away 
my fiddle } ” 

“They are come,’' said Tom eagerly. “Come 
along ; they are here." 

“They—they’ll leave me my fiddle? I won’t go 
unless thou swears to me that I shall keep it.” 

The clouds of sleep and of suspicion were not off 
the boy’s brain, and Tom had to be patient with 
him. 

Presently, up the steep ascent came some of the 
searchers, scrambling. 



no 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


“Whatever brought you up here ?” they asked. 

“ I do not know where I am/’ 

“ In Arncliff.” 

What! in the great grey crags above his own house ? 
Tom was amazed. He had wandered strangely. He 
could be down at home now in ten minutes. It took 
twenty to reach Arncliff from his door, but half the 
time to descend. 

“There comes the moon,” said one of the men. 
As he spoke the disc of the moon rose above Sowton 
down into a space of clear sky, painting white and 
ghostly the fringe of snow-cloud that hung across the 
sky from north to south. The cold light flared over 
the moors deadly white, palled in snow. 

Below, the lights of those who had come out in 
quest of Tom and Jim seemed, by contrast, not yel¬ 
low, but orange. Below, beyond was something— 
no, someone. Surely not Jewel! 

It was Jewel, indeed—come forth in the track of 
the men who were seeking her husband and brother. 
When Tom saw her he flung out his arms and away 
he went down the steep descent, plunging through 
the snow, shouting, sliding, recovering his balance, 
and then bounding over a snow-capped stone. 

Presently one of the navvies nudged his fellow and 
said : 

“ It’s not Jule a’ Nort, but Jule a’ Tom’s, and Tom 
a’ Jule’s : they seems to belong to each other and to 
none beside.” 

“If they are so glad to see each other again,” said 
the man addressed, “and we’ve had the finding and 
the bringing together, we shall be tipped handsome 
for our trouble, and be given to drink.” 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


Ill 


“Eh! to be sure,” said Tom, who overheard the 
remark, made purposely as an aside to be overheard. 
“ Drink and meat and cheese you shall have. Tis 
Christmas eve. Peace on earth and good-will, and 
the making-up of quarrels and the patching of strife, 
and the sowing again of love in the field where weeds 
had sprung up and nigh choked the corn.” 

Then the whole party went to the farm, where a 
blazing fire filled the ‘ ‘ house ” with warmth and 
light and laughter The white plastered walls, the 
ceiling, the floor, flushed as with pleasure at the re¬ 
turn of the master ; and the crickets were shrilling 
behind the jambs and back of the great fireplace, as 
if they also were rejoicing that he was not lost on the 
wold, but come home again. On the table were the 
trifles Tom had bought for the Christmas-tree ; spark¬ 
ling tin ornaments that twinkled gleefully, and or¬ 
anges that asked to be eaten, and nuts that cried out 
to be cracked, and the great Yule candle, which every 
grocer in Yorkshire sends on Christmas eve to his 
customers, expecting to be lighted. And, more, be¬ 
side the fire was a great pan of fermity—wheat and 
currants mixed with water and milk, and* stewed— 
ready to be eaten, for on Christmas eve every York¬ 
shire Christian makes his supper off fermity. Now 
was the time for Jewel to show her powers, and she 
showed them, and the long deal table was rapidly 
spread and laden, the bowl of fermity was placed 
smoking on it; cheese, and “cake ” (bread) and but¬ 
ter, and oat-scones, cold beef, smoking potatoes, and 
jugs of home-brewed ale—everything that was need¬ 
ful to furnish a good Christmas eve supper was ready 
to be attacked In a very short while, Jewel getting 


II2 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


all ready whilst the men and Jim and Tom crowded 
about the fire to thaw themselves, and melt off their 
boots and breeches and coats the snow that still 
clung. 

Then Jewel set the Yule candle on a brass candle¬ 
stick, and planted it in the midst of the table, and 
bade— 

“ Come, lads, you as have a mind to’t, fall to.” 

Not one was indisposed to do so, not even those 
two who had previously partaken of Jewel’s hospitality. 
Their appetites had not been satisfied—only stimu¬ 
lated, and they ate now as lustily, as omnivorously, 
and as long as the rest. Verily, a navvy is like a 
caterpillar, that eats its own weight in four and twenty 
hours. 

When supper was over, and every bowl and plate 
and dish had been cleared, the wonder was that bowl 
and plate and dish had not been eaten as well, with 
the steel two-pronged fork and the knife to boot, as 
pickle and Yorkshire relish to the rest; and the caul¬ 
dron, and the saucepans, and the stone ale-jars on 
top of the rest as stomachics and digestive pills, and 
the red-hot coals off the hearth after them again, as 
stimulants to torpid livers. Then the men groaned, 
and thrust back from the table, and Tom said :— 
Let’s all draw about t’ fire, and have some hot 
brandy and water, and a bit of fun.” 

The suggestion of the master of Tuddlams was 
complied with, with equal alacrity to that displayed 
when the call came to table from the mistress. 

Then they lit their pipes and held their steaming 
glasses, and Tom said— 

“To begin wi’, lads :— 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


”3 


((( 



The King of Agripp 
Built a varra great ship, 

Ann’ at the one end 
His sweet daughter did sit. 

If I had to tell her name, 

I shu’d be varra much t’ blame.’ ” 


“But thou St told it for all, lad,” shouted one of the 
navvies, Ben by name. 

“ How so ? ” asked another ; “I didn’t hear it.” 

“Hehas, though—i’t’ third line. Her name were 
An?t. I can cap that, though :— 

“ ‘ As I were going over London Bridge 
I saw a man stealing pots, 

And the pots were his own.’ ” 

“Yes,” said Weatherall, another man. “ Thou’st 
told that too often, Ben. The pot-steals were his 
own, and he was putting the steals” (handles) “on 
the pots.” 

“Right,” said Ben. “Black and breet, and runs 
without feet.” 

Then Jewel, looking into the circle by the fire, 
answered, as she carried the dish with the beef-bone 
away, “A flat-iron.” She halted in the doorway to 
the back kitchen, and asked :— 

“ ‘ A houseful, a hoyle ’ (hole) ‘ full. 

An’ I can na’ catch a bowlful.’ ” 


Then said Tom, “ It’s t’ same as I am blowing out 
betwixt my two lips now—reek ” (smoke), and he 
sent forth a long spiral puff of tobacco smoke into 
the air above him. 


8 


TOM A* TUDDLAMS. 


II4 

“Eh! to be sure it is,” said one of the men. 
“Come, then answer me this :— 

“ ‘Under the earth I go, 

But on oak leaves I stand. 

I ride on a filly that never was foaled, 

And carry a collar that never was bleached.’ ” 

No one was able to guess this. The riddle was 
new to the company. Then the teller said, “A man 
was on his way to be hanged, and he put earth into • 
his cap, oak leaves in his shoes; had the hempen 
cord around his neck, and rode the gallows tree.” 

“ That’s rather far stretched,” said Weatherall. 

“ So the man thought who was dancing at the end 
o’ the cord,” answered the propounder of the riddle, 
and elicited a laugh. “Wick” (alive) “at both ends 
and dead i’ t’ middle ; Tom a’ Tuddlams, what is 
that ? ” 

“A plough,” answered Tom. “Come, tell me 
this:— 

“ ‘ The King of Northumberland 
Sent the Queen of Cumberland 
A bottomless vessel to put flesh and blood in.” 

No one could divine the answer, so Tom sprang 
up, ran after Jewel, caught her round the waist, drew 
her into the circle before the fire, held out her hand 
on one of his, divided the rosy fingers, and pointed 
to the wedding-ring. “Do you see, lads ? A ring o’ 
gou’d.” 

“Stay, lass 1 ” shouted Ben, “and I’ll make thee 
laugh wi’ a lying tale. There was on a time five 
men: t’ one had no eyes, t’ second had no legs, t’ 
third had no tongue, t’ fourth had no arms, t’ fifth 
was neck’t ” (naked). “T’ blind man said, ‘Eh! 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


1*5 

lads, I see a brid’” (bird). ‘‘The dumb man hol¬ 
lered, ‘ I’ll shoot it } ’ T’ man without legs said, ‘ Til 
run after it! ’ T man without arms said, ‘ I’ll pick 
it up ; ’ and t’ neck’t man said, ‘ Darned if I don’t 
pocket it! ’ ” 

Chorus of revellers, “ Eh ! that is a lee ! ” (lie). 

“ Here, Jim ! ” shouted Ben, “here is a riddle for 
thee :— 

“ ‘It whistles i’t’ wood, it rattles i’t’ town, 

It addles’ (earns) ‘ its master many a crown. ’ ” 

Jim had been standing away from the company, 
attending to his violin, wiping tenderly off it the 
drops of water into which the snowflakes that had 
rested on it had dissolved themselves. He did not 
understand riddles. He could not think, it made 
him dizzy to be asked to exercise his wit. When the 
trial of ingenuity in guessing conundrums had begun, 
the boy had retreated from the circle to be away from 
something that was teasing to him. 

Now he was drawn forward, holding his violin and 
looking alarmed. Why would the men worry him 
and make his head spin with asking him questions he 
could not answer. 

“Come now,” said the men, “thou’st been out 
there i’t’ cold. Take the little stool and play us up 
a tune. ” 

“But first answer the riddle,” said the propounder: 

“ ‘ It whistles i’t’ wood, it rattles i’t’ town, 

It addles its master many a crown.’ 

“Dost thou give it up? Why, lad, it’s a fiddle.” 

“Si’ there, lad, sit down on the stool and play up.” 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


ri6 

“What shall I play?” asked the boy. ‘‘‘The 
Knight and the Lady' ? or ‘ The Fish and the Ring' ? 
or ‘Saint Joseph was an Oud Man, and an Oud Man 
was he’? No; I’ll play you ‘The Jovial Heckler’s 
Boy.’” 

“ Eh ! that’s right. Give us the ‘ Heckler’s Boy.’” 

Then Jim sat on the stool, tuned his violin, and 
fiddled, and as he fiddled, one of the men sang : 

“ 1 am a jovial heckler’s boy, * 

And by my trade 1 go, 

1 trudge the world all over 
And get my living so. 

‘ ‘ I trudged the world all over, 

A pretty fair maid I spied; 

I axed her if shoo would go wi’ me 
And be my bonny bride. 

“ The pretty fair maid denyed me 
And said, ‘ If 1 do so 
I shall be ruined for ever-a day, 

And shall be loved no mo’.’ 

‘‘ ‘ () how wilt thou be ruined ? * 

The heckler’^s boy replied, 

‘ For I am sure I will marry thee 
An’ work for thee, my bride.’ 

“ ‘ Now hou’d thy tongue from chattering, 

An’ tell me none such tales, 

For thou’rt a jovial heckler’s boy 
And naught thy word avails.’ 

* This ballad, which i believe has never before been printed, with 
its curious old English air, is traditional, and was taken down from 
the lips of some “ mill-lasses ” in Calderdale, as well as the riddles 
and stories already given. 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


117 


‘ How dost thou know me so, my dear ? 

How dost thou know my trade ? ’ 

‘ I know thee by t’ fringes o’ thy apron, 

Of thy apron,’ she said. 

“ ‘ By t’ fringes of thy apron, lad. 

And by thy slender shoe ; 

Thy stockings they are as white as snow, 

So that’s how 1 know you.’ 

“ I could not help for laughing out 
To hear the lass say so. 

I threw my arms around her waist. 

And away we both did go. * 

“ Shoo brought a glass all in her hand. 

An’ filled it to the brim ; 

‘ My love shall drink good den to me, 

Adrink like to him.’ ” 

When the song had proceeded as far as the penul¬ 
timate verse, ail the voices took it up : 

“I could not help for laughing out 
To hear the lass say so ! ” 

Then Tom sprang to his feet, passed his arm 
around his wife’s waist, and sang lustily : 

“ 1 threw my arms around her waist, 

And away we both did go.” 

And suiting the action to the word, he spun Jewel 
about, and danced round with her in the contracted 
circle before the fire ; then scattering it, he broke 
through, and danced alniut in the kitchen with her, 
waving his glass of hot grog above his head, then 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


Il8 

putting it to her lips and to his own, and spilling it 
over them both. 

“Have done!'^ said Jewel. “Thou a’most sent 
my skirts into t' fire and set me in a blaze.” 

“It’s Christmas eve !’' exclaimed Tom. Then to 
Jim : “ Strike up a dance, lad, and me and Jule shall 
dance in Christmas day.” 

The men cleared a space, thrust back the table ; 
some jumped upon it, and seated themselves thereon. 
Ben caught up Jim and the stool together, and heaved 
him up on the table, where he could fiddle as from 
a gallery. The boy was In his element now. He 
struck up a waltz, and played first slowly, but grad¬ 
ually quickened his pace. 

Jewell had hesitated, shrunk away at first ; but the 
strong arm of Tom was about her, and his heart was 
beating against her shoulder.. He put his chin on her 
head and drew it against his breast. She moved it 
away to utter a word of remonstrance, and looking 
up, her eyes met those of her husband, and such a 
flood of love streamed from them, that her heart gave 
a leap, she forgot her objection, rested her head where 
he had drawn it, and danced with him. The navvies 
clapped their hands, and sang or trumpeted through 
closed lips the air of the waltz, and kicked the table 
to the time. 

Then Jim played “heel and toe,” and Tom and 
Jewel danced that; and Ben on the table, who set up 
to be a wag and a clown, began to throw out his 
legs, heel and toe, as he sat, and to torture his body 
and face and arms into grotesque postures, and to 
emit absurd noises. Also VVeatherall got the iron 
empty kettle, in which the hot water had been 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


II9 

boiled for the grog, and put it between his knees, 
and hammered on it as if it were a gong or a drum. 

Suddenly Jim changed the tune to a polka, and the 
two wheeled round faster and even faster. Jewel’s 
face was on fire, her neckerchief had fallen, and as 
she danced she entangled it with her feet, and danced 
over it, and caught it in her shoe, and kicked away 
her shoe and the kerchief together. How well they 
danced! How they whirled and kept the tread! 
Her skirts flapped past the fire and made it blaze up 
with the sudden draught, then they were flung round 
the legs of Tom as he spun along. Her hair came 
loose behind, and she disengaged her hand to put it 
up ; but down it came, and, as the amber tresses flew 
about with the firelight on them, the men jumped off 
the table and up from their stools, and came caper¬ 
ing, dancing around them, catching the end of her 
locks, circling round the circling pair, and then— 
stopped short; for, from outside came the song of the 
carolers :— 

“ Christians, awake, salute the happy morn, 

Whereon the Saviour of the world was born 

Tuddlams was the last house they visited that night, 
and already the grey dawn was showing. 


120 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE heckler's BOY, IN MINOR. 

“ Amantium irse amoris integratio est." That we 
learned in our old Eton Latin grammar, and we 
always believed, on the strength of that adage, that 
the quarrels of lovers are the renewal of love. So it 
is popularly asserted that thunderstorms clear the air. 
Our acquaintance with thunderstorms teaches us that 
this assertion is not based on experience, but on 
desire. When the weather has been bad, and a 
tempest comes on, we trust that the nasty weather, 
having reached a climax, will give over being nasty 
and will smile. But is it so We doubt it; we are 
even positive that this is not the case. Our experience 
proves the contrary—that a thunderstorm unsettles 
the weather for an indefinite period after it, and that 
blue sky and laughing sun do not succeed it ; or, if 
they do, they appear fitfully between squalls and 
cloud. 

Now, if a quarrel were the reintegration of love we 
should rather hail a quarrel. When we found love 
growing cool, and little breezes blow, and tears begin 
to rain about trifles, then, just as Franklin sent up a 
kite to attract lightning and showers, so should we 
provoke a quarrel for the pleasure of having it over, 
and for the sake of the reintegration and restoring 
and reblazing up again of languishing love. 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS, 


121 


But it is not the case. A quarrel between lovers, so 
far from reintegrating, goes far to totally disintegrate 
love. 

“ Well,'’ said Jewel on Christmas day, “this is the 
first time that I've not been able to go to church at 
Christmas. I don't feel any other than a Jew or a 
heathen ; and you know why I cannot go. I daresay 
there will be no blessing on the coming year, as 
I’ve not asked it this day.” 

“But, Jule,” argued Tom, “ why should you not 
go to church, if you wish, this evening ? ” 

“This evening! Thank you—in the night and 
cold. I had enough of going out of a bitter winter 
night after you last night. No, thank you I I have 
not been able to go to church this morning, so I sup¬ 
pose I must be a heathen.” 

“But, Jule-” 

“It is all your fault. I couldn't pray if I went to 
church after last night. I should shame to be seen 
by decent folk. What did you take me for—to make 
me dance, to pull me about before all those men .? 
Do you think I married thee to practise to become 
one of them little figures that go round on a barrel- 
organ } ” 

“I thought thou liked it, Jule.” 

“I like it 1 Thou never asked me.” 

“Jule,” said Tom, anxious to change the topic, 
“haven't thou looked in the pretty mirror I bought 
thee yesterday.? ” 

“Mirror 1” exclaimed Jewel. “You brought it 
here to insult me. You made me dance before all 
those men, till my kerchief came loose and fell off and 
then my shoe went away, and last of all, my hair 



122 


7VM A' TUDDLAMS. 


came down, and there were all of them dancing and 
capering round about me, holding on to the ends of my 
hair. I never was so ashamed in my life ! And 
you, my husband-^you who ought to protect and 
care for your wife—you expose her to this shame." 
Jewel began to cry. Tom was alarmed. It was a 
bad sign when she began to address him with ‘‘you" 
instead of “ thou." 

“And when you’ve almost danced every rag oft 
my back, you say, ‘ Go and look at thyself i’t’ glass.'" 

“ I did not say that, Jule ! ” 

“I saw thee look it in thy eyes. And all those 
men staring at me, and me with scarce a stitch o' 
clothes on.” 

“Jule, you had lost a shoe, that was all.” 

“ And my kerchief " 

“But that you only put on when you went out of 
doors after me." 

“ Do you cal] it naught having my hair all down, 
and the hair-pins sanding the house-floor.? " 

“Jule,’'’ said Tom, “ 1 wish thou’d look in thy new 
glass 1 bought thee now, and thou’d see thy beauty 
gone; thy eyes aren’t bright, thy cheeks are red, and 
thy lips-" 

“Oh, I know I’m a fright in thy eyes. I never 
was much, except just for a week or two, and then 
thou wast ready to cast me aside. No, I will never, 
never look in that glass. Some day, when thou’st 
lost me, thou canst ask some other lass—some one 
with a pretty face, whose eyes are bright, and whose 
cheeks are lilies and roses, and whose lips are worth 
kissing and full o’ smiles—thou canst ask her to look 
in it—I will pot. Keep it for her." 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


123 

“Thou art tired, poor lass,” said Tom. “And be¬ 
cause thou’rt tired, thy temper is ruffled.’' 

“ Of course I'm tired. How should I not be tired.? 
First, I have to be rambling over the wolds and fells 
after thee, because thou can’t bide at home.” 

“ Eh ! Jule ! I went after Jim at thy bidding.” 

‘ ‘ That may be so ; but what made Jim run away ? ” 

“Thou didst flay ” (frighten) “him with making 
him think I’d take away his fiddle.” 

“It was not that. It was because he was in dread 
for his life. Thou didst poise ” (kick) ‘ ‘ and beat the 
poor lad. ” 

“You are unjust, Jule.” 

“ I know I'm all that is bad in thine eyes. Other 
folk may think better of me. I wish I were dead! I 
wish I were dead I I'd like to cast myself into the 
reservoir, or down one of the pot-holes, to be out of 
my wretchedness and away from thee.” 

“From me, Jule.? ” 

“Eh I I've had enough of thee, after last night, put¬ 
ting me to shame before all those men, after thou hadst 
beaten nigh to death my poor brother. Oh, that ever 
I married thee I That ever I did ! I curse the day ! ’’ 

“Jule! Dost thou mean this? Hast thou ceased 
to love me ? " 

“ Long ago. 1 hate you.” 

He heaved a long sigh ; stood thinking. 

“Very well, Jule, I’ll trouble thee no more. 

“ ‘ Shoo brought a glass all in her hand, 

An filled it to the brim ; 

‘ My love shall drink good-bye to me, 

An’ I’ll drink like to him,’ ” 

He was gone. 


124 


TOM A' rUDDLAMS, 


CHAPTER VIII. 

JULE ALL ALONE. 

Jewel dished up the roast beef, and saw that the plum¬ 
pudding was ready in the pot to be dished up when 
noon struck—the hour of the early dinner in the farm¬ 
house, but Tom did not appear. She waited till half¬ 
past and then sat down with Jim and ate her Christ¬ 
mas dinner in gloom, and with a tear of vexation 
gathering in her eyes. When evening closed in, snow 
began to fall thickly. 

“Now, Jim," said Jewel, “ Tom brought in abeauti- 
ful tree yesterday, and nuts, and oranges, and candles; 
but we could not have the tree on Christmas eve, so 
let us amuse ourselves together with dressing it, that 
we may have it on the evening of Christmas ; and, 
Jim, I’ve knitted six pairs of the most beautiful warm 
socks for Tom, and he knows nowt about it, and 
will be pleased when he finds that sort o’ apple hang¬ 
ing for him on t’ tree. ’’ 

But after the tree was made ready with all the 
beautiful contrivances provided for its adornment, 
Tom did not come. Jewel went to the door, and 
looked out into the snow that fell in blinding fleeces, 
large and fast. 

‘ ‘ Wherever can he be ? ” she asked. 

At dinner-time she was angry, because she thought 
he stayed away to annoy her; now she became uneasy, 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


125 

thinking he was staying away loo long. Annoyance 
might be carried loo far , well—the night was bad, 
and to trudge home through the deep snow would be 
a labour—up hill, too, for no doubt he had gone to 
Kebroyd. Perhaps he had gone to church ; in that 
event he would not be home till late. The night 
would be pitch-dark, the moon did not rise till late ; 
he had not the lantern with him. Well, he would 
have a tedious and unpleasant walk. She was glad 
of it, the more tedious and unpleasant the better. It 
would serve him right for staying away. She would 
not give him the socks now. As he did not come 
home in time, she would have the Christmas-tree 
without a present for him, and so punish him. He 
would feel that, and he must be made to feel uncom¬ 
fortable if he gave his wife occasion to be anxious. 

As the night drew on and Tom did not return, Jewel 
became alarmed ; but she was far from supposing that 
he had taken mortal offence at her words. 

“ I did speak a bit sharp," she argued with herself; 
“ but men don’t mind that. They've their consciences 
thick-skinned as rhinoceros hide, and unless one 
speaks sharp they don’t feel. I’ll give him the six 
pairs of socks when he comes home, and he'll forget 
all about what I said. Men ha'n’t got much o’ 
memories. ’’ 

She had removed the socks from the tree ; now she 
hung them on it again. 

Ten o’clock struck and Tom had not returned. Jim 
was nodding by the fire, wearied with not having had 
proper rest the night before. 

Jewel went to him and touched him. 

“ Is t' tree alight and ready? " he asked, starting 

up. 


126 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


‘ ‘ No, Jim. We shan’t have it till Tom comes back. 
He is out. He went down to church at Kebroyd, 
and the snow has come on so thick, and he not hav¬ 
ing a light, has thought best to stay there. He’ll be 
home i’ f morning ’—she spoke what she hoped and 
believed, or tried to believe—“Jim ! go to bed, lad, 
thou needst sleep.” 

It was unlike Tom, always thoughtful, leaving her 
In uncertainty. Why had he not made an effort, got 
a lantern from an acquaintance, and made a push to 
get through the snow.? If he could not come himself, 
why did he not send some one to tell her he was 
detained ? 

She slept as little that night as she had slept the 
night before. All next day snow fell, and the moors 
were deeply buried. There had not been much 
wind, so there were no heavy drifts, but the white 
sheet lay pretty evenly, and very deeply over every¬ 
thing. 

Jewel consulted Matthew next morning. He had 
not seen his master. She despatched him to the 
reservoir, and, if he heard nothing of him there, to 
Kebroyd. After several hours spent by Jewel in sus¬ 
pense that would not let her remain quiet in the 
house, Matthew returned. No one that he could 
learn had seen or heard anything of Tom a’ Tuddlams 
on Christmas day. 

Not a trace, not a report of his having been seen 
reached Jewel on that day, or after. 

Then Jewel remembered Tom’s last words to her— 

“My love shall drink good-bye to me, 

An’ I’ll drink like to him.” 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


127 

Did he mean that seriously ? Did he mean a long 
good-bye ? Her heart stood still at the thought. 
But though Jewel began, reluctantly, to fear that Tom 
would not return, she was very far from supposing 
that she had driven him from his home. She racked 
her brains to think what had become of him. She 
supposed that after the quarrel had broken out again 
on fresh grounds, he had flung away in a huff, and 
had, perhaps, gone over the moor and lost his way— 
perhaps had fallen into the reservoir, perhaps into a 
pot; there were quaking bogs on those moors to 
engulf the wanderer who treads incautiously upon 
them. She turned faint at the thought that he might 
be dead. 

Some one suggested that he might have gone to 
Ossett to see some of his old acquaintances there at 
Christmas. She wrote to a friend there to inquire, and 
learned, so far as her friend could find, he had not been 
seen in Ossett. Old Matthew asked whether it was the 
way of Tom to go for a spree to one of the big towns, 
because old Uncle Nick did that occasionally, and 
drank for a fortnight till he had spent all his money, 
and then came back. 

The fortnight had passed and Tom had not returned. 
January passed and still no tidings of Tom. No 
tidings all February. The Christmas-tree was put in 
its pan, outside the house; there was earth with the 
roots, and the old pan had holes in it. The tree 
would live. As for the tapers and gewgaws, Jewel 
thrust them out of sight in a drawer. 

In March same a thaw—a rapid thaw—and the 
white world, in a day and a night, under pouring rain 
and a westerly wind, became black. 


128 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


A few days after the thaw, old Martha a’ Samuel's 
—an aged very poor woman, who was thought to be 
a witch, who blessed white swellings, and took away 
warts, and discovered lost articles, and removed spells 
—came one day to Iuddlams holding a red kerchief 
in her hand. 

Dost ’a know this ? ” she asked of Jewel 

“ Yes," answered the mistress of Tuddlams ; “yes; 
where didst thou find it?" 

“ I found it at the very edge o’ the Boggarts’ Well 
Hole, one end caught in a bleg" (bramble) “bush, or 
it might have been washed or blown away. ” 

“At the Boggarts' Well!" Jewel’s head swam. 
She put her hands to her temples. 

‘ ‘ Eh ! to be sure. And if that be thy man’s, how 
came it there ? ’’ 

Exactly—how came it there ? Jewel could not 
speak. 

“To my mind," said the old woman, “it seems that 
Tom a’ Tuddlams must have gone that road, and what 
with the snow and the darkness coming on, he may 
have slipped and fallen down into t’ pot-hole. But 
the bleg, wi’ its thorns, caught the handkerchief and 
held it. He wouldn’t cast a good handkerchief away. 
He lost it somehow. And how came it caught by a 
bleg unless he was falling, and it held to the kerchief 
as were sticking out o’ his pocket ? " 

‘ ‘ The pot must be searched." 

“Eh, dear life !’’exclaimed Martha. “ However 
wilt thou do that? Why, if thou goes nigh it, and 
listens wi’ thy ear over t’ hoyle, thou canst hear water 
running and roaring far below. If a chap was to fall 
0:1 . he’d be swept away—the Lord knows where—for 


TOM A* TUDDLAMS. 


129 

nobody yet has found out where the water comes to 
daylight that is heard running below the earth in the 
Boggarts’ Well.” 

“I’ll ne’er believe it! 1 ne’er will!” cried Jewel, 
wringing her hands. “ It would be too dreadful ; and 
my dear, good Tom I The Lord is merciful I He 
would not suffer it.” 

“Then where be he?” asked Martha. 

Jewel threw herself down on the bench beside the 
table, laid her arms on the table and her head on her 
hands, and burst into a storm of tears. 

“I cannot bear it I ” she cried, choking with sobs; 
“I cannot bear it! If I only knew where he was ! 
But not to know if he be alive or dead ! ” 

“ Not to know,” said old Matthew, who came in, 
“ whether he mayn’t be still on the spree in Halifax, 
or Huddersfield, or Sheffield. Why, bless thee, he 
was brought up i’ towns, and this was too lonely for 
him. He’d money i’ his pocket when he disappeared. 
Take my word for it, he’s laiking at one o’ the towns 
where he used to be wi’ his father when a boy. ” 

“Oh, Matt!” she cried, “I’ll give thee brass” 
(money) “ if thou’lt go to Doncaster, and Pontefract, 
and Sheffield, and Huddersfield, and Ossett—wher¬ 
ever I can call to mind that Tom has been in former 
days—and axe if he has been seen there. ” 

“ Nay,” answered the old man, “ I must look after 
the farm, and I should never know how to begin that 
road. Get some younger man to go. There be Ben, 
the navvy. They’ve just about finished the new res¬ 
ervoir, and the water is to be let in to-day and out o’ 
the oud one. Then Ben’s occupation will be gone. 
Send him. He’s a shrewd chap.” 

9 


130 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


A rap at the door, and in came Ben himself. 

“ Mistress Jiile a’ Nort a’ Nowheer,” said he, “ thou 
must come down directly to i’ reservoir. The water 
ha’ been let out o’ t’ oud pond, and a dead man ha’ 
been found i’ it; but the eels ha’ played the deuce wi’ 
his face, and nobody can make nowt out o’ him, 
except by the clothes, and them as does must be his 
kin. Come along and see if it be Tom. Whomso¬ 
ever he be, t’ folks as drink water out o’ this reservoir 
ha’ been drinking soup for some time made out o’ 
dead man and oud clothes. ” 

Sick at heart, wild with misery, horror-struck at 
the discovery. Jewel went with the man, and was 
led into the parlour of the little tavern, where the 
corpse was destined to lie till the coroner had come 
and sat on it, and an intelligent jury had decided who 
he was and how he came by his death. 

Jewel came away with face livid and eyes dilated 
with horror. No, no ; it was not he. It could not 
be he. She could identify nothing. The hair was the 
same colour as that of Tom or near about, but the 
clothes were not his—at least, she thought not. No, 
no ; that was not he. 

Accordingly the coroner and jury sat on the dead 
man and pronounced that he was unknown, and 
that the occasion of his death was unknown. Never¬ 
theless, a strong impression remained in the minds 
of the people of Kebroyd that this was the body of 
Tom. For—they reasoned—one man disappears, 
and a body is found, and nobody knows of a second 
man having been lost—it stands to reason that the 
corpse belongs to the man we know was lost. As 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


131 

for Jule, poor thing—well, it’s natural she should cling 
to hope that her husband is still alive. 

There were times, nights—long sleepless nights— 
when Jewel doubted whether this were not really the 
body of her husband. It was true that she could not 
identify the clothing ; but that had been sodden in 
water and mud, and was so disfigured and discoloured 
that she might have been deceived. The hair—the 
hair was the same colour. But no ! Those were not 
his boots. She could swear he had no boots such as 
were worn by that horrible corpse. No ; that was 
not Tom—unless he had changed his boots some¬ 
where. 

Then, on other nights, she thought of his red hand¬ 
kerchief by the Boggarts’ Well which lay on the flank 
of Scalefell. How could it get there unless he had 
been there.? How could it be caught in a bramble 
spray, unless it had been caught from his pocket as 
he lay on the ground ? She would rather think of him 
drowned in the reservoir than carried underground 
by the mysterious stream whose exit was unknown. 
Again, at other times, mostly at night, she considered 
the suggestion of old Matt. Was it likely that he had 
tired of the loneliness of Tuddlams, tired of her, and 
gone away to a more stirring, gay life, such as he had, 
or might have known, of old } Oh, rather than that, 
in the Boggarts’ Well—rather the drowned man found 
in the reservoir—rather dead than alive and unfaith¬ 
ful to her. 

The summer passed. 

Jewel, with the assistance of Matthew, carried on 
the farm with prudence. 

No tidings of Tom, except a letter from her friend 


132 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


at Ossett, that someone had said he had heard some¬ 
body say that Tom had been seen somewhere. But 
next week came a letter from the same friend to say 
that it was a mistake. Someone had heard somebody 
else say that someone very like Tom Greenwood had 
been seen somewhere. 

Autumn passed, and the suspense was the same. 
The uneasiness, the unhappiness of Jewel grew greater, 
instead of diminishing. And now a new name was 
given her—“ Jule All Alone.” 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS, 


m 


CHAPTER IX. 

IN THE MIRROR. 

Such is the perversity of mankind, Jule acquired the 
title of “ Jule All Alone ” just as she ceased to be all 
alone, for in September she became the mother of a 
dear little son, who was christened Thomas, and who 
was destined to be the future Tom a Tuddlams, or 
Tom a’ Tom’s a Wills a’ Joe’s. Consequently Jule 
was not alone; yet she was in another sense more 
alone than ever, for she felt doubly desolate in having 
a child without a father to show it to, think of and 
care for the little one. She tried to trace the likeness 
to the old Tom a’ Tuddlams in the face of the young 
Tom a’ Tuddlams, and fondly fancied that she found 
it. 

One day, shortly before Christmas, old Martha, the 
witch, arrived at the farm ; she had come to remind 
Jewel, by her presence, that on the former Christmas 
she had received a widow’s dole. 

Jewel bade the old creature be seated by the fire, 
and she showed her the babe. 

“ Eh ! ” said the hag, “ I’ve brought him salt, and 
an egg, and matches. As thou didst not bring t’ bairn 
to my house, I’ve brought t‘ puddening to t’ bairn.”* 

* These three gifts are made to every child when visiting a house. 
It is called, in some places, “ Puddening.” Sometimes silver— 
generally a threepenny-piece is added—or takes the place of the 
matches. 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS, 


134 

Then, when the three gifts had been disposed of, 
with thanks from the mother, “ Sf there, lass,’'said 
the old woman, “ Fve brought the weeds and onfas," 
and she offered her some blue woollen threads. Thou 
must wear these about thy neck all the time thou’rt 
nursing t’ bairn." 

Jewel accepted the threads. 

“ Whativer thou does," said the old woman, “ don't 
let t’ bairn see into a looking-glass afore he's a year 
old.” 

‘ ‘ What would happen ? " 

“Thou’d best not ask," said Martha shaking her 
head. “But there, Christmas eve is coming, and if 
thou wants to know how to be sure where thy Tom 
is, whether he be alive or whether he be dead, I can 
tell thee how to discover." 

“Dost thou know anything Hast thou heard.?” 
Jewel gasped, her colour went, then flushed her cheeks, 
then she again became deadly white. “ Oh; Martha ! 
if thou knowest aught, tell me." 

“Nay, lass," replied the hag, “it’s none for me to 
tell thee. It is for thine own sel’ to find out. ’’ 

“But how can I find out ? I’ve been trying every 
way I can think of all this twelvemonth, and not a 
word about him can I hear. I cannot tell if I’m a 
widow and my bairn an orphan, or whether Tom be 
alive. He may be ill somewhere—I shall go mad if 
I do not know." 

“I tell thee, lass, it is for thee to find out.” 

“ How can I, Martha ? Tell me the way.” 

“ Hast thou never heard o’ looking i’ t’ glass on 
Christmas eve at night.? On Christmas eve the spirits 
of the dead are all about in the wind, and if thou looks 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


135 

i't’ glass, and thy husband or thy true love be dead, 
thou’lt see him looking over thy shoulder ; and if he 
has been drownded, he’ll be dripping with water; 
and if he’s been burned, he’ll be all in flames ; and if 
he’s been killed wi’ a knife, thou’lt see t’ wounds 
bleeding.” 

“ And if he is alive, and elsewhere, and—and— 
happy and has forgotten his home” 

“ Then thou must say t’ Lord’s prayer three times 
again, thou’st said it already three times, and lighted 
the Yule candle. If he don’t come then, then thou 
sayest t’ prayer over three times again, and back¬ 
wards, and then thou’lt force him to come and show 
hissen, just as he is.” 

“ And if-” 

“ And if he’s been untrue to thee, and forgotten 
thee, then thou’lt see his face over one o’ thy shoul¬ 
ders, and the face of that other over thy second 
shoulder. ” 

Jewel shuddered and covered her eyes. “I had 
rather know nothing than risk it.” 

“Nay, lass, there’s no risk. And, there—I’d for¬ 
got. Thou mun take a sprig o’ mistletoe and set it 
over the mirror, and then light the Yule candle. An’ 
thou must be alone, and nobody must disturb thee 
or know aught about it.” 

Again Jewel shuddered ; it seemed an unholy ven¬ 
ture to call the spirit of the dead to appear to her, to 
force the spirit of the living to come at her call and 
show itself in the mirror, not face to face—that would 
be horrible enough—but looking over her shoulder, 
with the eyes fixed on her eyes, in the glass ! 

But however she busied herself, the thought of the 




TOM TUDDLAMS. 


136 

mirror and the vision haunted her. A year had passed 
—a year all but a day, and an opportunity presented 
itself which could not be seized again for twelve 
months. She might at last learn what had become 
of her husband, her suspense might be brought to an 
end. It would be a satisfaction to know the worst ; 
but which was the worst.? Which would she rather 
see ! the double of the living man, perhaps alone, 
perhaps not.? or the ghost of the dead.? 

She thought about the suggestion of Martha all the 
day on Christmas eve, and when evening came, she 
had made her mind to the adventure. As she nursed 
her babe, she stooped over it, and whispered in its 
ear, “ To-night thy mother shall know all, and whether 
thou’rt a fatherless bairn or no. It mun be, it mun 
be ! I cannot bear the doubt any longer." 

When the darkness had set in, Jim was trouble¬ 
some ; he was fidgeting about the house, going up 
stairs and then coming down. 

“What is it, lad .? What dost thou want.? " 

“ Jule,” said the boy, “ I’m looking for Christmas. 
Matt said I mun have my tree to-night." 

“Tree ! "exclaimed Jewel, then thought. “ Aweel, 
lad," she said, “ there’s the tree still living and green, 
outside the door, that Tom took up last Christmas. 
Thou canst have that, and in yonder drawer are 
tapers and sparkling things, and thou canst take them 
out, and do what thou likes with them, only—" she 
said emphatically—“thou mun be quiet, and not dis¬ 
turb me. Si’ there, t’ baby has gone to sleep, and 
I’ll lig” (lay) “ him i’ t’ cradle, and don’t thee dis¬ 
turb him whatever thou dost. I’m going upstairs, 
and don’t thee come up, mind." 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


m 

Jewel had procured a sprig of mistletoe, and this 
she took in her hand. She took in the other the Yule 
candle sent her by the grocer at Kebroyd. It was 
green. She went upstairs to her room in the dark. 

Now Jewel recollected the looking-glass that Tom 
had brought her that same night a twelvemonth ago, 
and which she had put aside on a shelf, with a towel 
thrown over it. She had never looked into it since 
he gave it her. 

She struck a light with one of the matches the hag 
had given to the babe, and with it kindled the long 
green Yule candle, which she set on a candlestick 
-upon the dressing-table. Then she went to the shelf, 
withdrew the towel, and, taking the heavy swing 
mirror, placed it on the table. With a strong pin she 
affixed the sprig of mistletoe above it. The green 
candle she set beside the looking-glass. 

Her heart began to fail her. Was she right in ven¬ 
turing on this experimentWhat if the vision she 
saw were to send her mad } She had heard of such 
things occurring. If she did see something dreadful, 
whom could she reckon on to assist her ? Were she 
to shriek out, there was no man in the house but Jim. 

She had heard that if on Christmas night, in the 
dark, one walks round the room, one can hear the 
steps and feel the brush of the clothes of another 
walking in an opposite direction. Who that other is 
none could tell. 

This day—twelve months ago ! Jewel knelt down 
before the glass and turned it, so that, looking up, she 
could see her own face in it, and also—when it ap¬ 
peared—that other face she desired, yet dreaded, see¬ 
ing. No, that would not do. She could not bear the 


TOMA' TUDDLAMS. 


138 

glass thus. She turned it up again, so that kneeling 
she could not see into it, but must rise to her feet and 
stand before it to see what she sought. 

Then she knelt, and waited a moment. 

How hushed the house was ! Jim hardly stirred, 
so engrossed was he with his treasures. 

She said the “ Our Father" in a low and tremulous 
voice. Then she paused. 

This day—twelve months ago ! 

She remembered how angry she had been with Tom 
about the tree, about his beating Jim. Yet—had he 
not acted rightly .? The boy must be broken off the 
trick of going among the navvies and drinking spirits. 
Did the chastisement hurt him ? Jim had himself told 
her it did not; he had howled to awake her sympathy 
and provoke her interference. What had she said to 
Tom.? She remembered now every word—every 
cruel, cutting word. She remembered the look of pain 
that came in his face as she spoke. What—what 
were the words he then said.? She recalled them 
now—now for the first time : “Jewel, forgive and 
forget. Give me thy hand, lass ! This be Christmas 
eve, when there should be peace on earth and good 
will among men, most of all in a home between man 
and wife. ” 

And what had been her answer .?— 

‘ ‘ There shall be no peace between us, no good will." 

Jewel put her hand to her brow and wiped the cold 
drops of sweat that ran over it. Then she stood up, 
trembling as she rose, and looked into the mirror, 
and saw her own face, white, with the sweat-drops 
forming on the brow, and the eyes, large, full of fear, 
and with dark rings about them. 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


^39 


That was all she saw—herself. 

Then she remembered that she had said the Lord’s 
Prayer but once, and the apparition did not appear 
till it had been repeated thrice. 

She knelt once more, and slowly, and with a 
broken voice and trembling lips, said “Our Father” 
again. 

That night—a twelvemonth ago ! 

Tom had gone forth, after she had spoken so un¬ 
kindly, and had brought her this mirror, and the little 
candles and tin ornaments for her tree; he bore her 
no ill-will, though she had spoken so cruelly to him. 
Then she had not thanked him, but sent him forth 
after her brother. Oh, he had been well-nigh lost on 
that snowy night, along with her brother ; but he 
had saved Jim. Without him Jim would never have 
been recovered. He would have slept in the cave 
and died as he slept. 

How had she acknowledged what he had done for 
Jim and for her ? He had been merry that night, and 
she had yielded at the time to the spirit of joviality 
that sprang up ; but next morning had regretted it, 
being angry and ill-humoured because tired, and had 
vented her ill-humour and anger on her husband. 

She had read of David dancing in his joy of heart, 
and of Michal his wife sneering at him. What fol¬ 
lowed ? David put away Michal. And she—Jewel 
—had been like Michal: she had scoffed at her hus¬ 
band because, in the gaiety of his heart, and in his 
gladness at having come safe home and to her, and 
in his love and delight at being able to clasp her, he 
had spun her about in waltz and polka to Jim’s 
fiddling. Now the same fate had fallen on her that 


140 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


fell on Michal : she had lost her husband; she was 
bereaved—Jule All Alone, Jule the Desolate. 

She staggered to her feet once more, and again 
looked into the glass, and saw herself, and herself 
only. 

She struck her head with her hand. 

‘ ‘ I am distracted ! I have forgotten ! I have said 
the prayer but twice.” 

Then she fell on her knees again. 

That night—two years ago ! 

Two years ago ! Why then she was a poor mill- 
girl, almost starving, and seeing her brother nearly 
starving, too. Then Tom had come and offered to 
stand by her in her need ; and two years ago to¬ 
morrow they were made one. What would have 
happened to her had not Tom then come to her aid ? 
There had been nothing for her—or at least for Jim— 
but the workhouse ; and it would have been misery 
for her to have to part with that poor silly brother. 
Tom had kept Jim by her. Tom had been very good 
to Jim tor her sake, because he loved her ; and how 
he loved her now she saw plainly. On six shillings 
a week she had maintained her brother and herself, 
so scantily; and now she and Jim lived in plenty; 
but Tom, who had brought them into the land that 
flowed with milk and honey, Tom was cast out from 
it, cast down, may be into death, by her hand, by 
that hand he had taken to lift her out of poverty. 

Though she was shivering with cold and fear, yet 
a rush of blood mantled her brow and cheek, and 
dyed her neck, and in her shame she laid her head on 
the ground. Then she heard her blood beat like 
hammers in her ears ; there was a bounding of pulses 


TOM TUDDLAMS, 


141 

in her temples, and noises as of tramping feet behind 
her, on the stairs, in the room. 

With a cry of terror and shame and yearning un¬ 
utterable, she leaped to her feet, and looked once 
more in the glass and again saw herself. 

Yes, she had seen herself that night as she had 
never seen herself before. And in her agony of self¬ 
remorse and longing for pardon she cried out: 

“Oh, Tom ! oh, Tom ! oh, Tom ! ” 

And suddenly at the word, saw his face looking 
over her shoulder in the glass. 

She stood frozen to the spot; her heart ceased to 
beat. She could not speak. Her wide, distended 
eyes were riveted on the mirror ; and lo ! there was 
a third face reflected there, looking over her other 
shoulder. Her bosom heaved with a spasmodic sob. 
A cloud came over her eyes but cleared again, and 
she saw that other face was the face of her babe. 

“Jule !” 

With a cry she turned. 

In the mirror under the mistletoe were three clasped 
together. 


14 * 


TOM A' TUDDLAMS. 


CHAPTER X. 

ON EARTH, PEACE. 

How long did they thus remain, those three, clasped 
together ? Not long, for the babe protested. 

“ Oh, Tom ! oh, Tom ! where have you been ? ” 

“In Lancashire.” 

“ Lancashire ! ” 

No one had for a moment dreamed of his crossing 
to that side of the fells. 

“ And what hast thou been doing .? ” 

“Never mind, lass: working and waiting, and 
wishing to come back to thee.” 

“Why didst thou not come ? ” 

He hesitated awhile, then he said : 

“ I thought it best to keep away a bit.” 

“And how didst thou hear of the babe ? ” 

“As I was coming here I spoke to IMatt, and he 
told me. When I entered I saw the cradle, and took 
up the bairn ; and then I came on to see thee, upstairs. 
Jim said thou wast here.” 

“Oh, Tom ! I am fain thou’rt back. Yea, lad, it 
were right. Lm glad thou went, and I’m glad thou’rt 
come. Tom, Lll never drive thee away again, I’ve 
seen that to-night I never knew before—I’ve seen 
my Real Self.” 

Then they heard Jim calling and they went down 


TOM TUDDLAMS. 


the stairs, holding hands, and holding the babe be¬ 
tween them ; and as they passed through the door 
into the room, their eyes, that had been in the dark, 
were dazzled by the light, for Jim had kindled all the 
tapers on the tree, after he had set them up ; and now 
he caught his fiddle from the nail where it hung, drew 
the bow across it, and began to play— 

“Christians, awake ! salute the happy morn 
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born.” 

And, as he played, the carolers from Kebroyd, who 
had come up to Tuddlams, burst forth in the song: 

“ Christians, awake ! salute the happy morn 
Whereon the Saviour of the world was born.” 

And Tom and Jewel tried to sing, also, but their 
voices failed. He had his arm over her shoulder, and 
she hers about his waist, and with her other arm she 
sustained her babe, which looked at the sparkling 
tree and crowed. 

The voices of the carolers died away. Jim ceased 
playing, but the wind blowing up the vale wafted 
on its breath the music of the Kebroyd Christmas 
bells. 


; '.yf , • 

V '■. A-. 


. ,. l*/.'' I-'■ , 

' ''-i M/. “ ' 






f T 


•> . V 7\'; 


- r-i*.’ 

■if 


■r . 




- ' 

V:-' 


v".r 




>. 


■ >•’■ v 




/..s' 


.Y HHT'TA 




■'vi 


Plf’-’V 

.A- ^ 


■ ■ ) 


x . -a ^ 

■■ ■'' '■ •'■' , 

^>TT rr'C'!! XK' 


B ^rx'yi»-‘=‘7'cPl 3f::0 

’ *sh‘i<,ii -r h f\ .'T - ’i -■.■'■■ i\V :■:.>£ 'L'ji 

V-V') ■' 


: ?0-v :'i i &1 ■<:AT‘r. :mT ^ 

IR/JW.I '. , .' ' ‘V 




.^:-hn}loi4'-^^ «K in^*Vy;V^Lirj:‘?ii X, bAfi. 

' " ■ ^ . * ■ . ' ■■ .1 ^ 


.•/ A 


.O' tSt -y .x'ix} Cii'y-iTic Cy 


'. ,s ;:5iivvtJ'5;t^■•^rio\v ^ax;'y^; -sfl' 

• ' -'dY, ti. 

■•■ •■' ' ■'‘'*^ / -.a;; -*^^ 4 i' 

/'■ ;;y -^ 'iVy^vs r^tST ^ 





, o^ A'f' A?::,;'!* 

CiJ--"'^' 'i'i'Cy'y '"'r'ly-■•• '/'■' -'tV i.j 4-;.2i' r.'ji;’*'! ' 


■ . .^ » • T . V \ ■ J • ^y. .. • ■-> > V / i f ■^J•v • / ’ A ' f •» ' ' . / . ^ .. ia r-- ^ ^ 

r .'•: ytu/rn- :;^r. :nh i: .i:’»:' Y.-' •^/.d-.ydvi'Yi 

. -’A ... .i . .,- :, . . ■ ■ , 1., .-, .. '• '• 


5X* ' 


^ nY^ii J;AY :d; rf' v; ''•/ ♦> , 

Ko''^«yV'< ■y\\Ayh^.>k^.^yH' '•y.^ 

. ; **- ■<* r ^ ^ ^ 

^ '^■■. . ,A'- ■ 1 .i'wt'Tii'' .i '.. ■ . ,' ' '. -.-'V^KiU -"'i v/' ' •" '-. • • ' 







> J- 




s;. f, •j 




.-:-' , • ': 'a A , A*' , •■> v, .!. . 

‘v ^*.j,■ Y‘ y- ^ ^ • ' A " ' ; 



AT THE Y, 


CHAPTER I. 

THE FOOT OF THE Y. 

One dreary evening late in November, a “dry drizzle” 
enveloped hill and vale in grey haze. A dry drizzle 
would be a wet drizzle anywhere but in Devon ; there 
the term is comparative. It wets to the bone in two 
hours, whereas a driving rain drenches in half-an- 
hour, and a thunderstorm in five minutes. Therefore 
a drizzle is dry. Q. E. D. 

The young woman plodding forwards with a babe 
a few months old in her arms had been out in it many 
hours, and the dry drizzle had consequently saturated 
her garments as thoroughly as if she had been 
plunged in the river. 

The evening was fast falling. The mist hung so 
thick over the hills and clung so tenaciously to the 
trees that there was no saying where hill and tree 
ended and sky began. Already here and there a 
cottage window was flashing with light and making 
a halo about it. One bright and glorious halo irra¬ 
diated the darkness at the bottom of the valley where 
four cross roads met, bright and glorious as that sur¬ 
rounding the head of a saint. It surrounded, however, 

lO 



146 


AT THE Y. 


nothing other than a shop window exhibiting tins of 
Coleman’s mustard and Reckitt’s blue. 

The young woman was so wet and weary that she 
could scarce drag herself along. She stopped at the 
shop door and asked the way to Longabrook, learned 
it, and with a sigh went on. She had descended the 
great moorland ridge of Heathfield from the direction 
of Tavistock, and had entered a coombe, in summer 
sweet with pines, and pleasant with the rippling of a 
falling brook. 

Her direction lay through a lane, deep between 
dripping trees that wept on her cold tears as she went 
by, and over stones that threw stumbling-blocks be¬ 
fore her feet. Presently she came out on a widening 
in the lane, and saw a barn built on a bit of slaty 
rock, the wall of slaty stone, so that one could not say 
where the rock left of and the wall began. Against 
the end of the barn the rock fell away abruptly, and a 
gate gave access to a farmyard on a slope, and was 
so contrived that all the drainage, rich and dark as 
treacle, ran out at the gate into the road and was 
wasted. Within the yard was the farmhouse, low, of 
stone with granite windows, and thatched. The 
traveller stood at the gate and looked hesitatingly at 
the lonely house. It lay with its back to the south 
against a wooded hill; no sunlight could ever enter 
its gloomy rooms. There was nothing inviting about 
its appearance, and the young woman’s heart trem¬ 
bled as she opened the gate with numb fingers and 
crossed the road. 

Before she reached the door she was intercepted by 
a tall, bony woman, who emerged from one of the 
“linneys ” or cowsheds. 


A T THE Y. 


147 

‘'What be you a-wanting here?” she asked, in a 
hard voice. 

“ Is this Longabrook ? ” 

“ It be ; what next” 

“ Does Mr. Doidge live here ? ” 

“I reckon he does.'" 

‘ I want,” said the young woman, timidly, “ I want 
to speak to Ephraim Doidge.” 

The woman eyed her from head to foot; her grey 
eyes contracted and stabbed like steel daggers. She 
did not speak. She was gathering ideas. She drew 
her own conclusions at last, and said :— 

“ You'm a stranger in these parts, I reckon } ” 

“ I am. I come from Ireland.” 

“And what be you asking after Ephraim for?. 
What has he to do along of the likes of you ? ” 

“I knew Ephraim when he was a soldier in Ire¬ 
land. ” 

“Ifyou are come all the way from Ireland after 
Ephraim, you’ve got a long road to go back. ” 

The strange girl looked at the hard woman with 
supplicating eyes. “You are not his mother,” she 
said faintly, “I know you are not. He told me his 
mother was dead—glory be her bed. Where is he ? 
I must see him myself ” 

“No, I am not his mother,” answered the woman, 
sharply. “I thank the Lord as has delivered my 
soul out of the paw of lovers and from the mouth of 
marrying men. I’ve never had a man to rule me with 
a rod of iron, nor a child to break my heart with fer¬ 
mented liquor. This comes of Ephraim not taking 
the pledge. If he’d been a teetotal he’d never hev 
gone to the Stag’s Head and met with a ’cruting 


AT THE r. 


148 

sergeant, and taken the Queen’s shilling and been 
shipped to Ireland and met with you.” 

The woman had worked herself up to white fury. 
She turned abruptly and ran to the mow-hay, where 
a young man was cutting hay from the rick for the 
horses and cows. 

“Come here, Eph ! ” she cried, in discordant tones 
ringing with anger. “Come here, and see what 
comes of it all.” 

“Comes of what. Aunt Judy.?” asked the young 
man, composedly. “Don’t excite your bile over 
nothing. ” 

“Comes of drink, man, of drink !” 

“Drink, drink!” echoed Ephraim; “one would 
suppose I were a toper to hear you talk. I never 
take more than is good for me, and you cannot deny 
it.” 

‘ ‘ Ah 1 you moderate drinkers are a worse curse to 
the county than confirmed drunkards. Follow me, 
and see what comes of moderate drinking. ” Then, 
controlling herself for a moment, she' said, bitterly; 
“ There be two in the yard afore the house calling for 
you as never ought to be there. Go and pack them 
off whence they came. ” 

“ I am cutting hay, aunt, I will attend presently.” 

“You must come now and drive them off the prem¬ 
ises, or I’ll tell your father to load the gun and fire 
buckshot at ’em.” Then she grasped him by the arm 
and drew him through the gate and confronted him 
with the traveller. There was still some light in the 
sky, and by the light Ephraim saw the anxious, de¬ 
jected face and knew it. He started back. 

“ Bridget 1 you here 1 my God I what brought 


AT THE K 


149 

you-? ” he hesitated, and did not conclude his 

question. 

She threw back her shawl and exposed the sleeping 
infant at her breast, then raised her heavy eyes and 
looked him full in the face. That was her answer. 

Ephraim put his hand to his brow, and looked un¬ 
steadily from the young to the old woman. He was 
so taken by surprise that he did not know what to say 
or do. 

Ephraim Doidge was a tall, strongly-built, young 
man, with fair hair and frank blue eyes. He had a 
healthy colour in his cheeks, and was a good-looking, 
honest, and manly fellow, as every one who saw him 
admitted. But his lips were weak and his eyes want¬ 
ing in steadiness, so that his aunt had some reason 
for saying to her brother, “You should not have 
called him Ephraim, the fruitful, but Reuben, because 
that, unstable as water he will not excel.” 

Bridget’s knees shook under her, her face was deadly 
pale, but two hectic spots burnt in her cheeks for a 
moment and then went out like extinguished candles. 
Her large, dark eyes were brimming with tears. The 
old woman was also pale, her brows were knitted, 
and her teeth clenched as with lockjaw. Her hands 
also were contracted spasmodically. She did not 
withdraw her stabbing eyes for a moment from the 
unfortunate girl who tottered and shivered before 
her. 

Ephraim had been a soldier. His time had been 
up some six months ago, and he had returned home, 
had thrown off the scarlet and donned the fustian and 
corduroy. With that admirable genius for doing the 
wrong thing which characterises England, she has 



150 


A T THE Y. 


substituted short for long service in the army. In 
other words, she spends a huge sum of money in 
training raw pumpkins and turning them into soldiers, 
and, as soon as they have been manufactured into 
serviceable articles, breaks and throws them away. 
Thus it was that a sturdy young man in the prime of 
health, intelligence, and youth was sent home to un¬ 
learn at the plough-tail the lessons of the drill-yard. 

Presently Ephraim recovered himself sufficiently 
to say :— 

“Aunt Judy, I know this young person. I have 
met her in Ireland, and—and—I suppose she is trav¬ 
elling in England, and, being near this place, she has 
called to see me as a friend, and- 

“You are a liar, Eph ! ” exclaimed the old woman, 
“The devil marked you for destruction when you re¬ 
fused the pledge. This is but one step on the road 
to death.” 

Then suddenly flaring up into lambent fury, she 
rushed on the girl with her great hands open and the 
fingers crooked, “Out of the place with you ! you Irish 

vagabond ! you kinkered heifer ! you-” and she 

cast at her the grossest and most insulting word that 
leaped from her heart to her tongue. The girl, who 
had cowered before her, recovered with a start, flame 
shot out of her dark eyes, her whole frame quivered 
with rage, and she clenched her disengaged hand in 
the face of her antagonist. 

“ Leave her alone, aunt,” said Ephraim interposing 
his broad person. “You have the knack of saying 
that which would wake the dead. Do not touch her. 
She has done you no harm. Do you not see she is 
exhausted with weariness and wet and cold ? Come 




A T THE F. 


*51 

with me, Bridget, I will help you to a lodging.” 
Then he drew the young woman out of the yard into 
the lane. 

The lane was dark, muddy, stony, and narrow. 
Ephraim walked first, silent, with bowed head, and 
the girl followed. Presently he came to a gate open¬ 
ing west. The drizzle had ceased ; the clouds had 
curdled into shape and lay in ribs on the horizon, 
and the evening light pierced between" them. The 
sun had set ; but his rays lit clouds high above the 
lower raindrift, and tracts of unblurred blue, and 
these luminous clouds and illumined skies shone 
between the stripes in the west. Ephraim leaned 
against the gate, with his elbows on the top rail, and 
his chin on his hands, looking at the dying light. 
The girl stood behind him, pressing the child to her 
heart. 

“Ephraim,” said she timorously, “lean go no 
farther. I have been walking since daybreak, carrying 
my babe through rain. Sure it is killing me, and I 
can go not an inch beyond this at all.” 

“ Why have you come .? What do you want with 
me ? ” He knew why she had come, and what she 
wanted, but he spoke thus because he must say 
something, and could think of nothing else to say. 

“This is your child,” she answered reproachfully. 

■ “ Humph ! a bad job. What is to come of it ? ” 

“Ephraim, you swore to me that you would return 
to Dublin and marry me—you swore it before you 
left. I waited all the summer, daily expecting you ; 
but as you never did come, why, I came to you.” 

He uttered a low perplexed whistle that vibrated 
between tones and semitones. “Eve been an ass, a 


AT THE K 


152 

solemn jackass,’^ he said. “Confound it all, what is 
to be the end” 

“What is to be the end she repeated. “This, 
and only this, that I become your wife, and that you 
undo what you did amiss! Eph ! here in Protestant 
England I dare say it’s not thought so much of as it 
is with us in old Catholic Ireland, when a girl trusts 
too far the promises of the man she loves. But with 
us it’s a bad thing, and an unforgiven thing, entirely. 
My father has turned me out of his house, and bidden 
me go and find the man I loved, and who deceived 
me.” 

Ephraim withdrew his hands from the pockets into 
which he had thrust them when whistling. “Curse 
it all,” he said, “I reckon I’ve got myself into a queer 
kettle of fish.” 

“Ephraim!” sobbed the girl, “ I cannot stand. 

I shall sink and die at your feet unless you give me 
hope to hold by. And the poor babe too ! Sure but 
my arms are broken. I’ve carried it all day. Will 
you take it.?—it is yours. ” She almost forced the 
child upon him. He looked at the tiny face. The 
cloud bars had gone, and in the west lay a great 
golden dome of sunlit vapour rising high into trans¬ 
lucent emerald ether, and by this reflected light the 
baby face, with the tears like dewdrops on the 
lashes, was irradiated. “It has your eyes and hair, 
Ephraim. ” 

“Is it a boy or a maid?” he asked, almost sul¬ 
lenly. 

‘ ‘ A girl, just four months old. Oh, Ephraim ! where 
will you put me? I am streaming with water, and 
sick with hunger and cold.” 


AT THE Y, 


153 

‘‘Follow me, I will find a place where to lodge 
you.” He turned from the gate and walked on. 
“Curse it,” he muttered, “this comes of trusting 
women.” 

“ Ephraim,” sobbed the girl, drawing her weary feet 
with difficulty through the mud and over the stones, 
“how can you speak thus.? What have you to re¬ 
sent ? Have not I a thousand times more cause to 
complain.? I trusted you, I relied on your word, 
your sacred oath.” 

“ Why did you .? ” he asked discontentedly. “ Don't 
you know that men promise and swear, and mean 
nothing by it.? You should have known better than 
trust a soldier.” 

“A soldier ! ” echoed Bridget. “ Sure but who else 
is one to trust but a soldier, who is everything that is 
true and honourable, and not a taste of a rascal in 
him? Would you have all the world think th-at be¬ 
cause a man is a soldier therefore he is a liar, and 
perjured ? ” 

Ephraim did not answer. He walked on with his 
head down. Then the child he bore in his arms 
uttered a feeble cry, and a tiny hand was thrust forth 
from the shawl and touched his lips. Ephraim 
turned his head aside, but again the little fingers 
sought his face, and the palm rested on his mouth. 
Then he kissed it, and a warm gush, as if a fountain 
had broken in his heart, and was welling up, made 
his cheeks glow and his eyes grow dim. 

“The little one has my hair and eyes,” said he ; 
“it will be a pretty maid. But, Lord! how heavy 
she be.” 

“ I have carried her all day,” said Bridget 


154 


AT THE Y. 


“I cannot think how you did it.” His mouth 
twitched, and the little hand played about it. When 
he spoke he moved his face on one side. He stood 
still and looked at the girl. She was tall and grace¬ 
ful, with black hair and dark eyes. A handsome, 
noble-looking girl; the tears were rolling down her 
cheeks, and her mouth was quivermg. 

“ Well, well, Bridget,” he said, and his voice shook, 
“it is true that I swore to marry you, but I did not 
mean that you should take me at my word. There— 
as you have come, I suppose I must do it. That is 
—I will think it over. ” 

“Ephraim, I cannot go home again. I have spent 
every penny that I had, and my father will not re¬ 
ceive me unless I return as your wife. Fulfil your 
words, or my death will lie at your door, and that 
little one—that little one—have you the heart.? ” She 
burst into a storm of tears and sobs, and sank, broken 
by grief and fatigue, at his feet. 

“Get up. For heaven’s sake, get up! Lord! 
what if some one were to pass and see you thus ! 
Get up. There, there, I passed my word, and so I 
suppose I must keep it. Of course I will. ” 

He lifted Bridget with one hand, holding the baby 
with the other. He put his arm round her and kissed 
her, and her head sank on his shoulder. “ There, 
there, you are over-tired.” 

“I cannot go any farther. 1 cannot, indeed. My 
heart feels as if it would stop entirely. ” 

“Only a few steps farther, Bridget,” he replied 
tenderly. “ I am taking you to an old widow 
woman, Betty Spry, who will receive you and make 
you comfortable.” He kept his arm round her to 


AT THE Y. 


155 

stay her up, as her knees yielded under her, and the 
weight of her sodden garments. 

Presently they came to a cottage built of ‘ ‘ cob”— 
that is, clay kneaded with straw, and whitewashed. 
It was covered with thatch, and looked warm under 
it, as a mole in its brown fur. A friendly light shone 
through the little window. “It be small,” said Eph¬ 
raim, “but snug. You’ll not fare badly within.” 

He knocked at the door, and Betty Spry opened. 

“What, Mr. Eph ! You! Loramussy, and who 
be you a-bringing along of you } " 

“Betty, I want you to do me a favour. Here is 
a poor young woman with her baby, tired and wet; 
she has walked all the way from Plymouth, and is a 
stranger to these parts. She will be thankful for a 
night’s lodging. You will take her in, and I will pay 
you what is reasonable.” 

“Surely, sure-ly,” answered the old woman. “It 
be a poor living I can make out of half-a-crown a 
week and a loaf of bread, which is all the Boord of 
Guardians allows me, and out of that one shilling for 
rent of my house. I reckon the Boord won’t be 
down on me and reducing the half-crown if I take in 
lodgers ? ” 

“No, certainly not. If they do. I’ll make it up to 
you.” 

“They did with Martha Balsdon; her went out 
washing to Varmer Vallance, and they cut her down 
next meeting of the Boord. And Rebecca Kite, her 
took in a woman as was sick, and they docked her of 
everything but a loaf. ” 

“ Set your mind at ease, Betty. I will see you do 
not suffer.” 


AT THE Y. 


156 

^‘Boords be hard things/' observed Mrs. Spry. 
^‘Deal is softer than oak, and oak is deal to Guar¬ 
dians.” Then to Bridget : “Come in, my darling, 
and sit you down by the fire. Loramussy ! you be 
streaming wet. I reckon IVe got some of my daugh¬ 
ter’s clothes upstairs in the hutch. I’ll bring ’em 
down and air them. They’ll fit’ ee beautiful. ” Pres¬ 
ently, as she returned with clothes, she said, “ I reck¬ 
on you be hungry, but I’ve no meat for supper. I’ve 
not tasted meat this five week. I get but half-a-crown 
and a loaf, and out of that goes a shilling for rent.” 

“I will run to the village, and see if I can get 
some bacon. You have some eggs ?” 

“Eggs—! well, yes, out of a mere chance the hens 
have laid, but they don’t use to. How can they on 
half-a-crown and a shilling out for rent } ’Tain’t in 
their constitution to do it.” 

“I will fetch what is necessary,” said Ephraim. 
“Now, Bridget, get off your wet things and warm 
yourself before I come back.” 

When Ephraim returned from the little shop with 
meat and sugar, tea and bread, and a bottle of British 
brandy, he found Bridget seated by a bright fire of 
wood that flashed and leaped and laughed on the 
hearth. She was seated in the chimney-corner, and 
the rosy light illumined her graceful figure and beauti¬ 
ful face, and flickered in her large dark eyes. Her 
wet hair was loose, and hung over her shoulders. 
Old Mrs. Spry had thrown a scarlet shawl about her, 
and the reflection gave colour to her pale face. On 
the little round table by the fire was a white cloth, 
and on that were cups and a brown teapot that glowed 
in the firelight like copper. The widow was pouring 


AT THE Y. 


157 


boiling water into it from the kettle, and the steam 
rose from it. She had been making buttered eggs, 
and the fragrance of the toast filled the room. 

How comfortable the cottage kitchen looked ! How 
pretty was Bridget !—and see ! the little child was on 
her knees laughing at the flames, and extending the 
tiny feet and every tiny toe thereon to catch the 
pleasant heat. Is there a more lovely and moving 
sight in the world than that of a young mother with 
her babe on her knees } 

Ephraim’s brow cleared. His heart grew soft and 
weak. He went over to Bridget and kissed her, then 
each little foot and hand, and then the lips of the 
child. 

‘ ‘ Oh, Betty ! ” he said, ‘ ‘ give me the frying-pan. 
I will do the bacon myself, and lay me a plate and a 
cup. I must have supper here also, with you and 
Bridget and the baby.” 


158 


AT THE Y, 


CHAPTER II. 

THE LEG OF THE Y. 

When Ephraim returned to Longabrook it was dark, 
dark as pitch, and the lamp was lighted in the kitchen 
where his father was seated smoking before the fire, 
and his aunt, Judith, was engaged ironing at the 
table by the window, with the lamp by her. The old 
man was tall and bony like his sister, with the same 
hard face. He wore a bushy grey Newgate collar 
about the jaws and under his shaven chin. His long 
legs were like tongs, and were expanded with a great 
foot on each side of the fire. He sat back in his 
chair, sat at a joint in the middle of his back, and his 
head was sunk between his shoulders, which were 
elevated by reason of the elbows resting on the arms 
of the chair. 

Old Noah Doidge was a yeoman, owning his own 
little farm, which had belonged to the Doidges for 
several generations. He was a proud man, proud 
of his independence, proud of his savings, proud of 
his stubbornness, proud of his pride. Stubborn he 
was, stubbornness he regarded as an hereditary vir¬ 
tue. When he had formed a resolution he would stick 
to it at the risk of running to his ruin. There was 
once a gentle family of his name lived at Hurlditch, 
not five miles off, and over their door stood carved 


AT THE K 


159 

the Doidge arms, a woman’s breast distilling milk. 
The Doidges of Longabrook may possibly have been 
related remotely to the family that owned Hurlditch, 
but if so, all reasonable claim to the armorial cogni¬ 
sance had gone from the family. There was no femi¬ 
nine tenderness, no drop of the milk of human kind¬ 
ness, in the Doidges of Longabrook. All his weak¬ 
ness and wavering Ephraim derived from his mother. 
Noah Doidge had bushy grey tufts for eyebrows, 
and grey eyes keen and cruel as those of a hawk. 
His wife had died early, leaving him two sons; the 
elder was Ephraim, now at home with his father, 
the younger, Cornelius, was in a drapery shop at 
Tavistock. Ephraim and his father had never got 
on well together, and Cornelius, Noah despised as a 
milksop. The father was despotic and obdurate. 
Ephraim had enlisted after a quarrel with his father, 
and Cornelius had gone behind the counter rather 
than work on the farm and endure the sneers and 
blows of the old man. Now Ephraim was back. 
He and his father had come to disagreement, but the 
old man had constrained himself, as he found the 
value of a son at home. Ephraim, moreover, knew 
that he was to succeed his father ; he therefore threw 
his heart into the work of the farm, and avoided do¬ 
ing anything which would needlessly exasperate old 
Doidge. When Ephraim returned from the army a 
man full of vigour, broad-shouldered, hale and florid, 
with iron sinews, a military bearing, and military 
punctuality, Noah felt proud of him; he recognised 
in him one worthy to maintain the dignity of the 
family. 

For a moment after Ephraim had entered he stood 


AT THE K 


160 

uneasily at the door, looking from his father to his 
aunt. Noah drew a long whiff and puffed it slowly 
before him; he did not turn his head. Judith beat 
the iron down with an angry thud on a shirt she was 
smoothing, set her brows, glared at him out of the 
corner of her eyes, and then went on vigorously with 
her work. 

“Father,’’ said Ephraim, “ the pigs have been out 
over the orchard wall again. I’ve put up a rail, but I 
reckon naught will stop ’em. They are mad after 
the beech masts, and where a rat will run a pig will 
follow. ” 

The old man gave a grunt. 

“ I opened the pie,” said the young man again ; “ I 
found the potatoes cruel took with the disease. ” 

To this remark no response was vouchsafed. 

“ Be you going to sell the heifer to Thomas May, 
father ? ” 

“No,” with a growl. 

Ephraim came over to the settle and seated himself 
on it, and began to drum with his fingers on the 
seat. 

“ Be that rats ? ” asked the old man, sitting suddenly 
up and thrusting forth his head. 

“ No, I was playing a tune with my fingers,” ex¬ 
plained Ephraim. 

“ Have done then,” said Noah, and relapsed. 

The young man saw that it was useless to evade 
speaking on a subject uppermost in all their minds. 

“I see, father, ” he began, “Aunt Judy has, as usual, 
been drawing a bramble between us. I suppose she 
has told you that a strange girl has been here asking 
after me.” 


AT THE K 


l6l 


‘‘Yes.” 

“Well—that poor maid has come a long way, and 
I—I have asked Betty Spry to give her a shakedown 
till-” 

“ Till what ? ” asked the old man, confronting him. 

“That depends on you, somewhat, father.” 

“Then it needn’t depend another minute in un¬ 
certainty. I have and will have naught to do with 
her. Pack her off whence she came. What’s the 
sense of a foreign hussy coming here and asking after 
you, eh } ” 

“The sense of it ain’t far to seek,” threw in Judith 
Doidge, leaning both her hands on the iron and 
glaring maliciously at her nephew. “The sense is 
obvious enough, I reckon.” 

“ Yes,” said Ephraim, whom his aunt’s vindictive¬ 
ness had spurred into resolution and defiance. “The 
sense is plain enough. The maid has a claim on me. 
She’s a good girl, and a handsome one, too, and I’ve 
passed my word of honour to her—that I can’t go 
from. ” 

“Your word of honour!” sneered Aunt Judith. 
“ What is a word worth when the deed is deficient? 
Suit the word to the deed, and make a pair of 
’em. ” 

“Father,” said Ephraim, his colour deepening, “it 
is time for me to marry. You and Aunt Judith are 
getting old, and you need a young woman in the 
house to see to the cows and the maidens. ” 

“What is that?” cried Judith. “I be old and fit 
for naught but the graveyard. You’d shovel me in 
there and sit down on me, that I mightn’t kick off 
the mould and rise again, you would. I be old? 

11 


i 62 


A T THE Y. 


Can’t I mind the cows and make better butter than 
any young maid in the three parishes ? ’’ 

The old woman dashed her arm aside, and, going 
up to the side of her brother, said, placing her arms 
akimbo, “ Noah, is the young man to bring kinkered 
cattle into the family to corrupt the breed ? Be I to 
be driven from under this honest roof to make room 
for a slut Eph have picked drunk out of a ditch ? ” 

The yeoman was undisturbed by his sisters vehe¬ 
ment appeal. He did not look at her, or notice her. 

“Quite so, Eph,” he said, answering his son. “It 
is right that you should marry. I reckon the sooner 
the better, and none so pleased as I. Never you mind 
the squalling of cats.” 

“Thank you, father, thank you.” 

“ Stay, Eph. Eve not spoke of this before, but there 
be Farmer Jeffry’s daughter, Susanna, out to Hurd- 
wick is worth three thousand pound. Her’ll have 
three thousand pound paid down the day you marries 
her.” 

“But, father-” 

“There be no choice in the matter, Eph. It is 
almost a concluded affair. Farmer Jeffry and I have 
spoken about it already. ” 

“I do not love her.” 

“We can't have all we want in this world of woe,” 
said Noah, sententiously. “That were the remark 
made by the rabbit when he found his burrow invaded 
by the hedgehog.” 

“ Father,” said Ephraim, firmly, “ I will never con¬ 
sent to this. My word is passed to Bridget, and she 
shall be my wife. ” 

‘ ‘ And who may Bridget please to be ? ” 



AT THE V. 


163 


‘^The—the Irish girl who came here to-day.” 

The old man drew a long whiff, and let the smoke 
escape leisurely from his nostrils. 

“ I—I—” Ephraim hesitated, then added in a low 
tone and hung his head, “ I am the father of her 
child. ” 

“ Well, what of that.? ” 

“What of that, father.? My conscience will not 
allow me to desert her. For good or for ill I marry 
her. ” 

“As you like, it don’t concern me,” said Noah, 
coldly. 

“What’s that ?” cried Judith, in quivering wrath. 

“ You please to mind my shirt,” said the yeoman, 
composedly. 

“ Father,” said Ephraim, “ do you consent to my 
marriage .? ” He spoke doubtfully ; he did not like his 
father’s manner, he mistrusted his composure. 

‘ ‘ I neither give consent or withhold it. Did you 
not hear, that it naught concerns me ? ” 

A constrained pause. 

‘ ‘ Three thousand pounds would buy Cott’s Meadow, 
Furze Park, and Longlands, and then we want cruel 
bad to round off the estate,” said the yeoman. 

“I have promised to marry Bridget,” said Eph¬ 
raim. 

“Ah!” burst from the old woman. “It be a 
plant 1 Eph put her up to coming here. He thought 
if once she could put her foot in, all her body would 
follow.” 

“ Silence, Judy,” said Noah, gravely. “ Her shall 
never cross this drexil ” (threshold). 

“We shall see,” said Ephraim, rising. His blood 


i 64 at the y. 

was up, excited by his father s coldness and his aunt's 
venom. 

“We shall see,” repeated the old man, composedly. 
“ You are not master here to open the door to 
whom you will; no, nor ever shall be, if you marry 
that wench. I have, God be praised, another s6n. 
He bain’t all I could wish, but he be better than 
you.” 

Ephraim stood by the settle, with his hand against 
the back, disconcerted. “ Be reasonable, father,” he 
said. ‘ ‘ The maiden is the daughter of honest parents. 
I would have gladly fulfilled your wish and married 
Jeffry’s daughter, but, as you must see, it is now im¬ 
possible. I have done what was foolish, what was 
wrong. Bridget has come here after me to remind 
me of my duty. If I were to be false, I could never 
have a happy home, and hold up my head among 
honest men.” 

“And I reckon her be a Catholic, too,” threw in 
Judith. “You’d be bringing an idolater into this 
Christian house, would you.? ” 

“ I cannot break my promise to Bridget, father,” 
said Ephraim, firmly and gravely. 

“Very well, keep your word. I have nothing to 
do with it. That is your affair. Cornelius shall give 
up counter capers, and come here and learn to be a 
man. Perhaps, with the prospect of having Longa- 
brook after I am dead and gone, he will fall to farm¬ 
ing with some zest. He shall marry Susan Jeffry and 
buy Cott’s Meadow, Longlands, and Furze Park. 
One man is as good as another.” 

“He won’t object to that,” threw in Aunt Judy. 
“ Corny is a dear fellow, and docile as a lamb.” 


AT THE Y. 165 

“You will not, you cannot, do this injustice, 
father.” 

“ Injustice? ” echoed the old man. “ Hoity-toity ! 
I reckon I must put on my spectacles to see it. 
Isn’t Corny my son as well as you ; and may I not 
leave Longabrook to which I will?” 

“Hah, hah!” jeered Judith Doidge. “Now, at 
last, Corny will come by his rights. I always said it 
wasn’t fair to favour one son at the expense of the 
other.” 

“Silence, sister!” enjoined Noah. “Mark this, 
Eph! You know me. When I say the word, the 
word is sure as the everlasting hills. If you marry 
that piece of Irish baggage, neither you nor she ever 
crosses my drexil, and Cornelius becomes my sole 
and exclusive heir. ” 

“Father!” Ephraim passed his hand over his 
eyes; “this is hard; it is cruel. I must consider 
what you have said. But it is hard—bitter hard. 
Good-night, father.” 

With slow and faltering steps he mounted to his 
bedroom. He shut and bolted his door. Then he 
seated himself at the window, and looked out into the 
night. The rain had come on again, and was driving 
against the panes. The night was dark and cheerless 
as his prospects. He knew that his father could do 
what he threatened. He had a little money of his 
own—very little—that he had saved whilst a soldier. 
He was a strong man, able to earn a livelihood as a 
day labourer on a farm or in a mine, and live on 
fourteen shillings a week. But he was not born to 
this. He had some Doidge pride in him, and he 


i66 


A T THE Y. 


shrank from the prospect. He might become a 
gentleman’s groom or gardener, and his wife do wash¬ 
ing. But here again his pride rebelled. Indepen¬ 
dence was dear to him ; it was his birthright. Then 
he thought of his brother, whom he had always looked 
down upon, as weak in body and narrow in mind. 
“ I know Corny’s dirty little heart,’’ he said bitterly. 
“ He will grasp greedily at the offer. He won’t con¬ 
cern himself about me and my wrongs. Here he will 
be master, and drive his trap, and I shall be a poor 
miner at Hogstor, black with manganese, and glad of 
a scrap of meat on Sundays, dining all the working- 
days on dough pasty. ” But then he recalled the figure 
in the firelight of the ingle nook, with the beautiful 
black hair and lustrous eyes, and the innocent fair 
child laughing on her lap. Ephraim rose and 
stretched himself; he was stiff and cold. He crept to 
his bed. “ After all,” he muttered, “what must be, 
must; and as one sows, so one reaps. Bridget is here, 
that settles the matter. I’ll go to sleep. Maybe with 
morning, light will come into my affairs.” 

When Ephraim woke next morning he woke with 
an idea in his head. A gleam had broken over his 
dark look-out. He thought that, under the circum¬ 
stances, delay was desirable. Why should he pre¬ 
cipitate the breach with his father .? He would 
persuade Bridget to go into service, and leave the 
neigbourhood. He would give her a written promise 
of marriage, and tell her the reasons why he must 
postpone fulfilment of engagement. Widow Spry 
would take charge of the baby. Two or three years’ 
delay might save everything; his father’s mind might 
change, he was old and might fail and be ready to 


AT THE Y. 167 

yield when he saw how set his son was on marrying 
Bridget. 

Ephraim had a friend, a schoolmaster, about five 
miles off. He resolved to visit him and get his help 
in the composition of an advertisement for the 
“ Western Daily News, ” for a situation as nursemaid 
or general servant, “where no footmen are kept,” 
said Ephraim. “ I could not bear to think of Bridget 
in a place where there are footmen.” The school¬ 
master would not be disengaged till four o’clock, so 
he had the morning before him in which to assist his 
father in getting in the turnips. 

The old man said nothing to his son, but when, 
after dinner, Ephraim changed his clothes, both he 
and Judith looked hard at him. 

“ Where be you a-going to ? ” asked his father. 

“ Tm going to set all square with Bridget,” he an¬ 
swered evasively. 

“ I don’t see how you can square what’s all askew,” 
said his aunt spitefully; “nor why you need put on 
your Sunday suit for that.” 

Ephraim vouchsafed no further explanation. He 
took his hat and stick and went forth. Judith watched 
him, and saw that he did not take the turn to Betty 
Spry’s cottage. “He is gone elsewhere,” she said ; 
“but Lord help me if I know whither.” 

When Ephraim had left the room, his father’s face 
lost all look of resolution, and his bearing became 
hesitating. “ I shall never abide Cornelius,” he said, 
“and Eph will be no good till that wench be got 
rid of.” 

“Give her money, and she will go fast enough,” 
said his sister, contemptuously. “ Ephraim is so weak 



i68 


A T THE Y. 


that she thinks she can do what she likes with him. 
She came and looked round the farm to see if the 
nest would suit her, and she has settled near it. She'll 
turn Eph to do her will unless she be got rid of. Give 
her money, and don't stint. It is worth dropping a 
few pounds to be rid of her." 

“ How much 

“Well, I reckon, about what a half-Guernsey is 
worth—twenty pound.” 

The old man went upstairs to his bedroom, unlocked 
his strong box, and took from it a leather bag, into 
which he put twenty gold sovereigns. He thought a 
moment, and put ten more, loose, in his pocket. 

Then he came down, put on his hat, went direct to 
Widow Spry's cottage, and asked to see the foreign 
woman who was lodging there. 

“She is in the upstairs room. Do you want to 
speak to her.? ” 

“Yes, I do, Betty, and, what is more, alone. Go 
to my sister, she has some hog’s puddings for you. 
We killed a pig Wednesday. Tell her I sent you for 
them.” He waited by the fire till the widow was 
out of hearing, and then went upstairs. 

The young mother could not doubt for a moment 
who the stern, grey old man was who entered her 
room. She rose from her seat timidly, and cast an 
appealing look into his steely eyes, then hers fell with 
the sense of hopelessness that came over her heart. 
She stepped aside and caught the back of the chair 
on which she had been seated near the bed and the 
babe that lay on it. 

“ Be you the maiden who wants to marry my son ?” 
he asked, in a harsh voice. She coloured. 


A T THE Y. 


169 

trusted him when he promised me marriage/’ 
she said, in a low tone. ‘ ‘ I never thought but that 
he was true as gold. ’’ 

“ Eph is a fool,” answered the old man, impatiently. 
“ He had no right to ask you to trust him. He had 
no right to make any promises. He is engaged to 
be married to Susanna Jeffry of Hurdwick, who brings 
with her three thousand pounds. It stands to reason 
he can’t marry both of you. We are Christians here, 
and not Turks. It’s against the law. So the question 
is which woman he is to take, and which word he is 
to break ? ” 

“ Your son is under oath to me. He cannot bind 
himself to another. ” 

“ Can he not.?” the old yeoman laughed. “Does 
the law bind him to you ? Try the law if you will— 
it will prove weak as an elder twig. If he chooses to 
pay his addresses to another, and snap his fingers in 
your face, all you can do is to learn patience and 
bear it.” 

Bridget trembled, and put her hand to her bosom. 

“ Ah ! ” pursued the old man, ‘ ‘ take my advice and 
go home whence you came. If you made your way 
here thinking to force him-” 

“I had no thought to force him at all,” said 
Bridget—“ I will have nothing to do with the law. 
If he has not the honour in his heart to keep his word 
to me, then God help me, I am a lost soul.” 

“ That is right, and sensibly spoken,” said Noah 
Doidge. ‘ ‘ Have nothing to do with the law. The 
law is like dog-grass, you take it between finger and 
thumb, and it cuts both. But I’ll deal fair by you. 
My son has been a fool and must pay for his folly. 



AT THE Y. 


170 

Look here; I have brought you twenty pounds, all 
in gold, good as was ever minted. There’s not an 
Australian white-faced coin among them. There’s 
ten of them have the man and the horse, and the rest 
have the royal arms on their backs.” 

He opened the bag and poured the contents on the 
table. Bridget turned white and put both her hands 
to her brow, shading her eyes—farmer Doidge thought 
—the better to see and count the sovereigns. 

‘ ‘ What is the meaning of this ! ” she asked 
hoarsely. 

“Meaning? why, maiden, the meaning is clear 
enough. You have mother-wit to understand, I 
reckon. Look at the gold, count the sovereigns, 
there be only two ten-shilling pieces among them. 
That is a deal of money, and takes a lot of sweat to 
earn. Why,” argued Noah, “if you were to swear 
the child on Eph, I reckon you’d get eighteenpence a 
week, or maybe two shillings, not a penny more. ” 

Bridget was motionless, frozen to her place. 

“Look’ee here,” said the old man, in a coaxing 
tone, “there’s many a man will sell himself for 
twenty pounds. I’ve a young chap working on the 
farm. He’s a bit tottle (silly), but that don’t matter. 
I reckon he would marry you right on end for that 
twenty pound, if I were to propose it to him ; and so 
I’ll get a licence, and in a week you shall be made 
an honest woman.” 

At last Bridget realised what was said. Her bosom 
heaved, her cheeks flamed, and Are leaped from her 
eyes. She trembled so that the furniture in the room 
shook. She dashed her hands against the table, so 
as to send some of the coins upon the floor. 


AT THE Y, 


171 

“I won't stick at twenty," said the old man, 

though it is enough, heaven knows, and hard- 
earned. ril make it five-and twenty, and at that I 
stand." 

“ I ask but one thing," said Bridget, mastering her 
emotion with difficulty, and fixing her glittering eyes 
full on the old man’s face. “Did your son send 
you ?" 

“Eph.? Yes, he did." Coldly, without wincing 
under her gaze, Noah replied. 

Then Bridget uttered a piercing cry. “Away, 
away with the money !" She struck the table, and 
money danced upon it. “The price of blood, the 
the price of a soul! ” 

“There, do not be excited and unreasonable," 
said Noah Doidge ; he stooped to pick up the fallen 
sovereigns. “Take the money; these heroics are 
useless. I will pay no more : take it, and begone." 

“False, false!" cried Bridget: “your son is a 
cowardly liar, and you are his abettor. Old man, 
you should have red hair instead of silver, like Judas, 
who betrayed the Innocent. I will not stay. I came 
here trusting to the word of a Christian and the 
honour of a soldier. I did not sell my soul for money. 
God forbid I ” She beat her bosom and her brow, 
and stamped on the floor. The wild Celtic blood in 
her was boiling. 

“ I pray you do not shout your wrongs so that all 
the parish may hear," said Noah, angrily. “There 
is the money. I leave you to get cool and consider. 
The money is all there but a half-sovereign, which has 
rolled under the bed. Good-bye. In an hour I shall 
return. If you want a lift to Tavistock, I will harness 


172 


A T THE Y. 


the mare and drive you there myself, and ”—he stood 
at the head of the stairs—“compose yourself and be 
reasonable ; when we part at Tavistock, Til give you 
another five. That will make thirty pounds—a for¬ 
tune for a maid." 

He went slowly downstairs, shut the door, and 
walked home. 

When he was gone, Bridget cast herself on her 
knees by the bed, threw her arms over the child, and 
tossed and writhed in shame and grief. The babe 
woke and began to cry, and when its mother did not 
regard the feeble appeal, the cries intensified to 
screams. Then, with an .expression of despair, 
Bridget started up, snatched the child to her, seated 
herself on the bed, and rocked herself and the babe 
together. 

Without, the wind moaned, and drifts of ash-leaves 
were swept by the window. Darkness fell fold on 
fold over the landscape and over Bridget’s heart. 


o 


AT THE F. 


173 


CHAPTER III. 

THE FORK OF THE Y. 

With the assistance of the schoolmaster, Ephraim had 
concocted his advertisement, and walked home fully 
impressed with the advantages of a liberal education, 
which had enabled the schoolmaster to see that 
“ general servant, where no footmen are kept,” was 
an unsuitable expression. The advertisement was 
written, and put in an envelope addressed to the pub¬ 
lisher, not editor, of the “ Western Daily News,” with 
four shillings inclosed, in penny stamps. The envel¬ 
ope was not sealed, for Ephraim intended to read the 
inclosure to Bridget before posting it, and explain to 
her his motives for desiring a delay, and that she 
should go into service. 

“ If she remains in service a twelvemonth or two 
years, and father shows no signs of relenting, I shall 
have time to turn round and look out for a place my¬ 
self. If I could get a situation under a parson as 
groom and gardener, that might suit me, or a cottage 
at park gates, where Bridget can open to carriages, 
and I can be coachman. I should like to have to do 
with horses. That comes natural to me. But, who 
can saythe old man may see that his best interest lies 
in keeping me, and may come to take me on my own 
terms. What good could Corny be to him, with his 


174 


AT THE K 


white hands and pigeon breast ? Father has an eye 
to his own interest, and won’t cut off his nose to spite 
his face, I reckon.” 

Ephraim did not enter Longabrook—he passed the 
gate and went on to Widow Spry’s cottage. The 
night had fallen dark, so dark that he might have 
gone by the cottage without seeing it, but for the 
flicker of firelight through the window. A smile lit 
up the young man’s face, and his heart was light. His 
conscience was easy. He was going to do what was 
right, and his fear of the consequences was allayed. 
Indeed, he held up his head with an heroic self-con¬ 
fidence. Was he not risking the loss of his birthright 
by following honourable principle ? If that does not 
elevate a man, what will ? He opened the cottage 
door without knocking, and went in. Bridget was 
not by the fire. Widow Spry was moving restlessly 
about the little room. 

‘‘I be glad you’m come, Mr. Ephraim,” said she. 

“ Where is Bridget ? ” asked the young man. 

“Surely you’m come a bit late, just a bit too 
late,” said Betty Spry. “Her be gone this hour.” 

“ Gone ! ” 

“ Yes, I reckon. Her tooked up the baby and 
made a bundle and went back to foreign parts, right 
on end. That was what her minded to do, so her 
said.’* 

“ Bridget gone with the child ! ” 

“Her ha’n’t been a very paying sort of a lodger,” 
said the widow. ‘‘ I thought herd a stayed longer, 
and been a comfort to me, but now, if the Boord 
hears I’ve harboured a tramp, and comes down on 
me !’’—she shook her head—“If the Boord came 


A T THE K 


175 

down on me, it would knock me all^to scatt, I reck¬ 
on. ” 

“ Bridget gone ! ” Ephraim could not realise what 
was said. He ran outside and looked up and down 
the dark lane, no one was to be seen, no one could 
have been seen. He came back with nervous twitch¬ 
ing of the lips and hands, and pale cheek. “ What, 
what is the meaning of this .? ” he asked. ‘ ‘ Why has 
she gone } Have you been unkind to her 

“I reckon you ought to know best why her be 
gone,” answered Mrs. Spry. “You sent her the 
money to pay her off. Her ve left it all on the table 
upstairs—twenty-four pound ten. I reckon it were 
twenty-five when you sent it, but ten shillings rolled 
away, and can't be found nowhere. It have gone 
between the chinks of the floorboards, I reckon, and 
you must tear up the floor to find it. But ’taint 
worth doing that. ” 

“I do not understand,” said Ephraim. “I sent 
no money to her.” 

“ You did, though, by your father. He’ve a been 
here and seen the young woman, and paid her over 
the gold, which he said you’d sent by him, as you 
didn’t like to come yourself, and thought it best 
arranged between you by a third party.” 

“ I never sent a penny.” 

“It’s no odds to me,” said Widow Spry, “but if 
you’m set on having back the ten shillings, don’t go 
charging me wi’ having took it. It may be that 
her thought better of it, and kept that to pay for a 
night’s lodging elsewhere, as her wouldn’t bide by 
me.” 

“Good heavens !” gasped Ephraim, “my father 
was here! ” 


176 


A T THE K 


‘‘He came from you, so I gathered from the poor 
young woman, and left the money as from you, 
though I doubt not it came out of his own pocket. 
If you don’t find the ten shilling under the floor, 
don't lay it on me. There be rats in the cottage, 
and they carry away anything they chance to find 
failed between the boards." 

“ I never sent my father here.” 

“ He told her you had, and her was like one mad, 
and went off right on end. ” 

“It was a lie, a cursed lie! ” cried Ephraim, blaz¬ 
ing red as fire. “ I had nothing to do with it.” 

“ Why, then, did you keep away all day.? ” 

“ That is another matter. How long is she gone ? ” 
“ An hour, I said.” 

“ Which way did she go ? ” 

“ The way she came, back to foreign parts.” 

He asked no more questions, but set off in pursuit. 
His teeth were set, and his brows knit ; his breath 
came short. He was very angry. When his blood 
was up he was stubborn. No, now there should be 
no delay of a year or two. If his father played him 
such underhand tricks he would not spare him. He 
would have the banns put up next Sunday, and 
within a month Bridget would become his wife. He 
snatched the envelope from his pocket, and tore the 
advertisement, and with it the postage stamps, and 
scattered the fragments in his path as he went along. 
No ; he would show his father and his aunt that he 
was in earnest. 

A long two-mile hill was before him, ascending a 
wooded valley to Heathfield. The ascent was too 
steep and the hill too long for Ephraim to maintain 


A T THE K. 


177 

the pace at which he had started. He consoled him¬ 
self with the thought that Bridget, burdened with the 
babe and her heavy care, must necessarily mount it 
with slow tread. He must catch her up before she 
emerged on the moor. 

The ascent made him hot. He wiped his brow 
and took off his hat. He had left his stick in Betty 
Spry’s cottage. He regretted it now, it would have 
assisted him. As he approached the head of the hill 
the cold northeast wind caught him. He had heard 
it rushing in the pine-tops, but the coombe he had 
come up was sheltered, and he had not felt it. Near 
the summit was an old turnpike house, disused as a 
.turnpike, and converted into an ordinary cottage. It 
was clothed roof and walls in slate, and the windows 
were protected by shutters in which two holes were 
cut. Through these the light from within shone. 
They were like red eyes glaring on him as he went 
by. He proceeded half a mile before he got out on 
the open moor, eight hundred feet above the sea, 
swept by every blast from every quarter. The road 
had been fresh stoned, and was irksome to walk on, 
advance was slow, and did not keep pace with his 
impatience. No sign of Bridget anywhere. Here 
on the moor the night was not so black as below in 
the valley among the trees. When the fresh-stoned 
piece of road ended, Ephraim ran and called, but 
was forced to cease; he had lost breath in mounting 
the hill. Then suddenly—he came to a dead stop. 
Ephrairn was now at the Y. He had come to a point 
where the roads, equally good, diverged, one to the 
S. E., the other due S. There was a signpost at 
this spot, and a clump of wind-torn, headless spruce 

12 


A T THE Y, 


178 

and larch. The night was too dark to allow the 
directions to be read, and no signpost would say 
which road Bridget had taken. 

At the Y, Ephraim stood perplexed. Which road 
should he elect to followBoth led to Plymouth, one 
by Tavistock, the other by Beer Alston. Both ran 
for many a mile over desolate heath without a habita¬ 
tion on it, both were circuitous. Which should he 
take ? Everything depended on his choosing aright. 
If he went awrong he lost Bridget for ever. If he did 
not overtake her within an hour, the possibility of 
finding her again would be gone. She would disap¬ 
pear in Plymouth past discovery. She could not 
return to her father. Whither would she go ? Where 
seek shelter? 

No marvel if his head span, and his heart turned 
faint. He put his hands to his temples and pressed 
them, and tried to find a reason for preferring one 
road to the other. 

He could find none. There were no data on which 
to form an opinion. There was nothing but chance 
to determine him. 

“This is the way with men,” said Ephraim, bit¬ 
terly, despairingly. “Again and again in life we 
arrive at a Y, and everything depends on our choice 
of the road—fortune, happiness, content on this side ; 
misery, poverty, ruin, moral and social, on that: and 
there is nothing to guide us which side to go. Rea¬ 
son can only act on grounds, and it is precisely at 
the Y that grounds fail us. In such a predicament 
there is no choice but to toss up.” He took a coin 
from his pocket, and spun it in the air. “ Heads to 
the right, tails to the left,” he said, as he clapped his 


AT THE K 


179 

right hand on the shilling in his left palm. Then, 
discontentedly, “Confound it, there is not light by 
which to read face or reverse. ” He repocketed his 
coin, and stood a few minutes brooding and irresolute. 

“What was that my father taught me as a child 
when I began to drive? Was it not this.?— 

‘ If you go to the right, you are sure to go wrong, 

If you go to the left, you go right. ’ 

Well, ril chance it. To the left. If wrong, I can but 
turn and try the other road. So —To the leftT 


i8o 


AT THE K 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE LEFT ARM. 

To the left. The wind came stronger, colder, and 
more cruel. Utter blackness to the northeast, as 
though an avalanche of snow were threatening to fall 
and bury the entire world. To the west and south, 
here and there a star sparkled feebly. Ephraim 
feared lest, in his haste, he might pass Bridget. It 
was likely that she, hearing a step on the road, would 
stand back against the hedge, hoping to remain un¬ 
observed. Therefore, at intervals, he called her by 
name. 

Every now and then he stood still and listened. 
He could hear nothing but the moan of the wind 
among the grass, and the distant roar of the moor. 
“ The roar of the moor ” is a familiar token, in these 
parts, of approaching storm from the northeast. It 
is occasioned by the wind among the granite tors and 
furzy brakes of Dartmoor. The roaring is like the 
roaring of the sea. Every now and then, when he 
stood still, he felt impelled to turn back and take the 
road to the right. Perhaps he was wrong. Perhaps 
Bridget was speeding, head down, along the right 
branch of the Y. If so, every step he took, every 
step she took, were separating them more certainly, 
more fatally. But then the thought arose also, if he 


AT THE Y, 


l8i 

were to turn back, the chance was much the same 
that he was missing her. He had elected the left 
road. He must pursue it, and abide by the conse¬ 
quences. 

Presently he heard the tramp of a trotting horse, 
and then the sound of wheels behind him. He looked 
back and saw a pair of widening lights approaching. 
He resolved to stop the conveyance, and beg a lift of 
a mile, or ask the driver, if unable to take him, to 
keep his eye open for a young female, and to tell her 
that Ephraim Doidge was behind. As the lights came 
up, the young man stepped forward and held out his 
hand, and shouted. 

‘"Hallow!” exclaimed a familiar voice. “ Eph 
Doidge here I Why, what the deuce has brought you 
out on Heathfield on such a night as this ? ” 

The driver had recognised the young man as he 
stood in the halo of the carriage-lamp. 

“What! Farmer Jeffry! Will you give me a lift 
for a mile or two ? ” 

“To be sure. Jump up behind, beside Susanna. 
My old woman is at my side, and takes up her proper 
seat and half of mine—you couldn’t thrust a straw 
between us.” 

So Ephraim got into the seat in the cart behind, 
beside the young girl worth three thousand pounds, 
whom his father had determined he should marry. 

Ephraim was on the left, to windward. 

“Will you mind opening the big umbrella, Mr. 
Eph.?” asked Susan Jeffry. “The wind nigh cuts 
my head off, and my ear feels like a thing dead. I 
reckon we shall have hail or snow before many min¬ 
utes are by.” 


i 82 


AT THE Y. 


If you particularly wish it,” answered Ephraim ; 
“but I am on the look-out for some one whom 1 
want to overtake, and with the umbrella open I 
might miss—the—party. ” 

“ Oh ! as for that,” said Susanna, “father will keep 
his eye open. Won’t you, father } ” She nudged the 
farmer in his back. “Mr. Eph is expecting to over¬ 
take a gentleman, and he wants you to look out for 
him along the road.” 

“I think I should be happier looking out myself,” 
said Ephraim. 

“Oh ! if it be too much trouble for you to hold the 
umbrella over me, never mind. I dare say my ear 
will get frost-bitten and drop off. Eve heard of such 
things, and it feels like it.” 

Ephraim was obliged to unfurl the huge gingham 
umbrella. 

“Not that way, Mr. Eph. It will be turned inside 
out unless you put him with his nozzle to the eye of 
the wind.” 

The great screen cut off all the left side of the road, 
and Susanna sat on the right and obscured that. 
Ephraim sighed. He must trust to Farmer Jeffry’s 
keen eye. He was depressed, and turned over his 
difficulties in his head. 

“You are mighty diverting I must say,” observed 
Susanna. “And it’s snug here behind, with father 
and mother in front of us as a wall of flesh, and the 
great umbrella against the wind. ” 

Ephraim cast furtive glances over his shoulder. If 
they passed Bridget, he might see her thus. 

“You haven’t dropped anything, have you ? ” asked 
Susan. 


AT THE Y. 


183 


“No, miss.” 

“Because I thought possibly you might have lost 
your tongue.” 

“It is not that,” said Ephraim ; “but I am so 
much afraid of passing my—my friend in the 
dark. ” 

“ I’ll keep my eyes open for you,” said Susan ; “ I 
shall have nothing else to occupy me. I suppose 
now your thoughts are mighty agreeable, and I 
shouldn’t object to pay a penny for them. ” 

Without paying our penny we may read them. 

Ephraim was thinking that almost certainly he was 
on the wrong road. He could not be quite certain. 
Bridget might have obtained a lift. If he was on the 
wrong road, and every step of the horse were carry¬ 
ing him farther from Bridget, then his fate and hers 
were decided. Providence had interfered to separate 
them for ever. It would be in vain for him now to 
retrace his steps with any hope of finding her. Should 
he return to the Y and take the right road, she would 
by this time have got on so far ahead that he might 
not hope to overtake her. That choice of the left 
arm of the Y had sealed his fate. Bridget was not to 
be his wife. Had Heaven intended him to take her, 
he would not have gone astray to the left. Then he 
considered that the only commandment with promise 
is that which bids a son honour and obey his father. 
If he took Bridget, he went against his father’s wishes, 
and how could he hope that God’s blessing would 
rest on the disobedient son } His intention when 
setting out had been right. He had desired to undo 
a wrong once done. At the Y stood the choice be¬ 
tween two rights, as he now perceived—the right 


AT THE Y. 


184 

due to Bridget, and the right due to his father. He 
could not fulfil his duty to both when they conflicted. 
Providence had decided for him, and had given him 
his direction which was to determine his future. 

He was sorry for Bridget, very sorry. He grieved 
that she should be exposed to the storm with a sad 
heart and a heavy load. But what could he do.? 
Nothing. The possibility of doing anything was 
taken from him when he turned to the left. The part 
of a wise man is to take advantage of circumstances 
as they arise, and to accommodate himself to the sit¬ 
uation into which he has dropped. That five-and- 
.twenty pounds lying on the table ! It was really 
too bad of Bridget to refuse it. If she had accepted 
the money, then the score against him would have 
been wiped out, and he need no longer have felt 
uneasy. It was inconsiderate of Bridget; it was 
unkind, it was wicked. A bitter emotion rose in his 
heart against her. 

‘ ‘ There comes the hail ! ” cried Susanna, drawing 
closer to her companion. “ Do please, 3Eph, hold the 
umbrella with a firmer hand ! Before long we shall 
be at Hurdwick. ” Ephraim grasped the umbrella-stick 
shorter. The hail rolled over them, the road whit¬ 
ened in a minute. 

Suddenly Farmer Jeffry drew up, and turned his face. 

“Now, Eph Doidge,” he called, “ where are you 
bound for.? Here we are at the gate of the lane 
down to Hurdwick. If you are going on to Tavistock, 
I must set you down. But I recommend that you 
come in, and have supper with us, and stay at least 
till the storm has swept past, if you will not bide the 


AT THE K 


185 

"'I must go home/' said the young man, hesita¬ 
tingly; have not passed the person I wished to 
overtake. So I must return." 

“Nonsense, man!" exclaimed Jeffry; “walk all 
way back to Longabrook in the dark and hail, and at 
this time I Pshaw ! you do nothing of the sort. You 
come in and have supper and a glass of toddy. Ill 
tell you what you shall do. You shall sleep here ; to¬ 
morrow I must be going your way—I am about to 
buy some bullocks of Farmer Tickle—and Ill drive 
you to your own door." 

The hail tore down, hard and heavy as bullets. 

“Well, don’t keep us waiting," said Jeffry impa¬ 
tiently. “There, I decide for you." He whipped 
the horse, and drove down the lane to his farm through 
an avenue of stunted ash. 

All were glad to escape out of the biting cold and 
driving ice-bullets into shelter, and light, and heat. 

A good supper by a blazing hearth off hot beefsteak 
pudding, with a bowl of steaming punch, completed 
the work of soothing and satisfying Ephraim. This 
was the reward of right doing, of honouring his father, 
and taking the road towards fulfilment of his com¬ 
mands. Ephraim’s spirits revived; he no longer 
thought of Bridget save as a misguided, inconvenient 
person. He became chatty, told a good story, cut a 
dry joke, chaffed Mrs. Jeffry, and became sentimental 
towards Susanna ; the more punch he drank, the 
more certain he became that he was morally right. 
Jeffry was a jolly farmer of the old school, who liked 
his grog, and hated radicals and blue riband ; he re¬ 
plenished Ephraim’s glass as often as it was emptied. 
After a while he rose. “A good man cares for his 


/ 


l86 AT THE Y, 

beast, ” he said ; ^ ‘ one secret of my success in life, 
young man, is that I never trust anyone to do any¬ 
thing without running my eye over his work. Now 
IVe had my supper, I’ll go and see that Turpin has 
had his.*' 

After that, Mrs. Jeffry went out to see that the rare 
stone-china bowl in which the punch had been 
brewed was washed and put away. She believed it 
was a marvellous piece of fabulous value. A gentle¬ 
man had all but offered her £50 for it. Simple soul, 
it was not worth more than five shillings. Believing 
it to be valuable, it was bequeathed by codicil to 
Susanna and her heirs and assigns for ever. 

Thus the two young people were left together by 
the fireside in the settle. A rod ran across the room, 
and a green curtain hung over it. This curtain was 
drawn so as to exclude all draughts from and include 
every element of cozmess about the fire. Mr. Jeffry 
was away for half-an-hour. His wife did not return. 
The cleaning of the punch-bowl led to other cleanings, 
and the cleanings to polishings, and the polishings to 
putting away. When Farmer Jeffry’s red face ap¬ 
peared through the curtains, Ephraim and Susanna 
were seated so close beside each other on the settle 
that, to use the farmer’s own expression, “you could 
not have thrust a straw between them.” 

Then Ephraim, looking very red, what with the 
punch, and The heat of the fire, and proximity to Su¬ 
sanna, said, “Farmer Jeffry, il you’ve no objections, 
we two here will put our horses together for life’s 
journey.” 

“That’s well,’' answered the burly father. “If 
Susanna is agreeable. I’m not particular. What! the 


AT THE y. 187 

punch gone ? We must have another brew to solem¬ 
nise the occasion.” 

The cold drive, the warmth of the kitchen, the good 
fare, combined to make Ephraim sleep soundly that 
night. He dreamed that he came to Longabrook in 
a cart, and pulled up at the door and shouted to his 
father that he had brought home a wife. Then he 
drew a sack out of the cart, and put it down in the 
kitchen, and thrust his hand in and pulled out a plump, 
apple-cheeked wife, and put her down on the settle. 
Then he thrust his hand in again, and pulled out 
another plump, apple-cheeked wife, and put her also 
on the settle; then again, and again, and again, till 
a whole row occupied the settle, and still he went 
on pulling them out of the sack. The next lot he 
arranged upon the mantelpiece, and when that was 
full, he drew out more and more, and set them all in 
order, side by side, on the window-sill, and still they 
were not done ; he kept on diving with his arm and 
drawing out more, and these he ranged on the shelves 
of the dresser, and yet he had not done. He stood 
and rubbed his eyes, and put his hand in his pocket 
for his handkerchief, and when he drew that forth, 
there fell out of it another apple-cheeked wife. He 
had a plug ot cotton-wool in his ear, and he pulled 
that out, • and stood looking at it with bewilderment— 
he had drawn out with it another apple-cheeked wife. 
Then he went to the sack again, and continued draw¬ 
ing them out and putting them in all the rooms—in 
the parlour which was never used, on all the little 
glass-bead mats on the parlour table in the cupboard 
where his aunt kept her cordials ; in the back kitchen 
he put one into each of the saucepans and empty jam- 


i88 


A T THE Y. 


pots, into the brown jar for the salt, into the bread- 
pan, and the* cake-pan, and the vegetable-basket. 
There was no coming to an end of the wives, and they 
were all alike, indistinguishable from each other, and 
all exactly like Susanna. Then—as he was becoming 
hopeless of accommodating more, and weary to death 
of the endless apple-cheeks—all at once another face 
looked in at the window, a sad, beautiful face with 
large dark eyes and black hair, and instantly all the 
apple-cheeked wives shrivelled up and squealed and 
were gone. 

After that his dream changed. He thought he was 
in the village shop, that he leaned across the counter 
and ordered one yard and three-quarters of wife. 
“ How will you have her cut.? ” asked the shopman, 
“ on the square or on the cross, and cheap or the best 
article we have in stock“ On the square, of course, 
and of the very best.” Then the shopman took down 
a roll and began to measure wife out against the brass 
measure let into the counter, and cut and gave it over 
to Ephraim, who looked hard at it and said, “ I fear 
it is all dressing. ” ‘ ‘ Shake and see, ” was the answer. 

Then he began to shake the yard and three-quarters 
of wife, and clouds of dressing flew out, and he shook 
and shook, and more and more dressing came out of 
her, and the substance became momentarily thinner 
The shopman remonstrated; it was not fair to try 
the nature of wife so—nowadays they are dressed up 
to the extreme, and there is none to be got off un¬ 
sophisticated sound warp and woof. Then all at once 
a hand came and tore the flimsy gauze from top to 
bottom, and before him stood Bridget. 

Ephraim woke with a start, and found that he had 


A T THE Y. 


189 

slept late. He rose and dressed, and came down¬ 
stairs with a feeling of depression weighing on his 
spirits, the effects of the dream, he supposed. He 
did what he could to make himself agreeable at break¬ 
fast, and during the morning he hung about Susanna 
under pretence of helping her in her work, but ac¬ 
tually hindering her. The feeling of chill on his 
heart remained, he could not shake it off. 

After dinner, Turpin was put in harness, and Far¬ 
mer Jeffry was ready to drive him to Longabrook. 

The day was bright, but the wind was still in the 
east, bitterly cold. The moor was cased in a panoply 
of icy granules. In the road the wheels had crushed 
the hailstones into dirty ice. The sun was power¬ 
less to thaw the frozen envelope. Dartmoor was one 
white dazzling range, and the granite crags rose out 
of the hail and snow black as coal. 

Ephraim and the farmer conversed together all the 
way on the prospects of the young man and the 
merits of Susanna. As they spun down the hill they 
emerged from the hail coating upon dark moist earth. 
In the valleys all was thaw and water. There Eph 
saw the roof of the shop where last night he had pur¬ 
chased a yard and three-quarters of wife. Involun¬ 
tarily he looked behind him into the bottom of the 
cart to see if the sack of apple-faced wives was there. 
Then the trap whirled into the village street. 

“ Hallo ! What is up here” asked Farmer Jeffry, 
drawing in Turpin sharply. A good many men and 
a great many women were assembled about the door 
of the ‘ ‘ Stag’s Head. ” 

“Anything wrong.? What’s all this about? ” asked 
Jeffry, pulling up at the tavern door. 


AT THE K. 


190 

Some of those addressed looked hard at Ephraim 
and said, with a shrug of the shoulders, “ It be no 
concern of ours. Ask he. 

“But what is the matter, Tooke ?’' inquired the 
young man, descending from the cart. 

“ You’d better go in and see with your own eyes,” 
answered the man addressed. 

“Gan no one tell me.?” asked Jeffry. “Be you 
all tongue-tied.? ” 

“Her be lying in the parlour,” answered Tooke, 
“ and Widow Spry has the baby.” 

“Poor thing, I doubt if that will live after a night 
in the storm,” said another man. 

“He ought to be tore in pieces,” muttered one 
woman. 

“I’d like to scatt his head with a clever,” said 
another. 

Ephraim’s blood curdled. Jeffry was elbowing his 
way in at the door; the young man followed him. 

“Us have telegraphed for the crowner,” said the 
landlord. “It’s a crowning case, and no mistake.” 

“Who is dead.? Is it an accident.? ” 

“A sort of accident done of purpose, I should 
think,” said a man. “If you drive a dog into water 
too strong and deep for him to swim, you don’t reck¬ 
on it an accident if he drowns. If a young woman 
and a babe be sent out of house at night in a storm, 
to wander on Heathfield, I reckon it be hardly an’ 
accident if they both starve of cold. ” 

“But who can she be.?” asked Jeffry, pushing up 
to the table, on which lay Bridget, stiff and dead. 

‘ ‘ Poor thing, poor thing, she don’t belong to these 
parts by the look of her. ” 


AT THE Y. 


191 

“ Mr. Eph Doidge can tell y’ best who her be/' 
said the landlady. 

“Who is she, Eph.? How do you know anything 
about her ? 

Then the women's tongues were loosed. Ephraim 
stood white, stunned, speechless, beside the form of 
the dead girl. In the window was Mrs. Spry, trying 
to pour warm milk down the throat of the child. 

“Can’t you speak, Eph .?asked the farmer. 

“ No ; 1 reckon he can’t, ” said the landlady ; “he 

can’t for very shame. Ask Betty Spry. Her knows 
most about it. ” 

“Then, for heaven's sake, tell me,” exclaimed 
Jeffry, turning to the widow. 

^ Betty told the story in her own way, with exag¬ 
gerations and suppressions. She told what she had 
learned or guessed, proud to be of consequence for a 
day, proud of possessing information shared by none 
of her gossips, and, in her eagerness to give herself 
importance, accentuating, aggravating every painful 
detail. 

“ Do y' want to know who her be .? ” she asked. 
“Well, I tell you, true as Gospel. I'm not one to 
make up lies. I’m not so daring as to do that. Not 
on half-a-crown a week and a shilling out for rent. I 
couldn’t do it on the money. It ain’t expected of me. 
Thicky [yonder] poor maiden be one as knew Mr. 
Eph in Amerikay or Ireland, or some of them foreign 
parts, and her came after him with the baby, because 
they’d been married out there. But Mr. Eph, he 
wanted to have some one else nearer home, so he 
wouldn’t let her bide here, but drove her out of my 
house, which be comfortable enough for one shilling 


A T THE Y. 


192 

a week rent. It mayn’t be grand as that of some 
folks, but it’ll keep out rain and cold. ” 

“ Her came to my door yesterday,” said a woman, 

and axed the way to Longabrook, and whether Mr. 
Doidge lived there. I put her in the road, poor soul, 
but she looked then ready to drop with starvation 
and weariness.” 

‘‘It were not yesterday, but the day afore,” threw 
in another. 

“Was it? Well, it may have been. 1 can’t say, 
but-” 

“Mrs. Spry, go on with your story,” said Jeffry, 
whose lace had become crimson as a peony. 

‘ ‘ I reckon them hard-hearted ones at Longabrook 
wouldn’t take her in,” said the second woman, who 
would have her say. ‘‘ And herd have perished of 
cold that night if Betty Spry hadn’t had the bowels 
of compassion to take her in and give her something 
to eat.” 

“ I’ve but a loaf of bread a week from the Boord,” 
observed Mrs. Spry. “ If Lve done good. I’ll be re¬ 
warded for it, I knows. The promise is in Scripture 
for a cup of cold water, and I gave her a cup of hot 
tea, and to that buttered eggs and some rashers of 
bacon, though, the Lord knows. I’m not one to afford 
such luxuries.” 

“ How came she to leave your house ? ” asked Jeffry. 

“Mr. Eph Doidge and his father turned her out 
last night when it was dark and threatening snow. 
You see, they didn’t want no scandal about her ; so 
they gave her money and threatened her with the 
police and Exeter gaol if she didn’t go off that very 
night.” 


A T THE Y, 


193 


“Good heavens ! Is this true? ” 

“May 1 die this minute if it be not Gospel truth,’’ 
said Mrs. Spry. ‘ ‘ They gave her twenty-four pounds, 
and old Mr. Doidge has the brazen impudence to say 
it were twenty-five. But it were not. Four-and- 
twenty, and not a threepenny bit more. I counted 
the money myself. The poor thing would take none 
of it. Her went away and let it lie, all four-and- 
twenty pounds, on the table.” 

Suddenly Jeffry turned on Ephraim, his face purple 
with anger, the great veins of his brow puffed with 
blood. He caught him by his shoulder in his vice- 
like left hand, and said, “ Ephraim ! answer me at 
once. Do you know this unfortunate girl.? ” 

Ephraim’s stiff lips refused a reply, He tried to 
speak, but could not. Everything swam before his 
eyes. He had only half heard what had been said 
around him. 

“Answer me,” thundered the farmer ; “answer me 
by your cowardly silence, or by a word as a man.” 

Ephraim put his hand to his brow. He did not 
answer. He could not take his thoughts or eyes off 
the calm, cold face on the tavern table. 

“ Is that your child? ” asked Jeffry, pointing with 
the butt end of the whip to the babe on Mr. Spry’s 
knees. 

A cry from the widow. “The darling ! the dear 
lamb ! the pretty dove ! It be dying, dying! Come, 
Mr. Eph, and take a last look at your own child 
whom you have killed.” 

Then Jeffry’s fury mastered him. He clenched his 
teeth, and with his left hand grasping Ephraim, he 
swung him round the table where the dead woman 

13 


AT THE Y. 


194 

lay, up and down the room, men and women making 
way for him and applauding, and lashed into him with 
the gig whip across back and shoulders and thighs. 
“You came sneaking after my Susanna, did you! 
you came eating my beefsteak and drinking my rum, 
did you 1 and toasting your shins over my fire, and 
laying your cursed head under my roof, did you I 
And all the while this poor soul was wandering house¬ 
less, shivering, starving on the moor ; and as you 
turned in on my feather tyes (bed), she laid her down 
in the snow to wake no more.” He cut him across 
the face, and then, full of disgust and abhorrence, he 
turned the whip in his hand, and brought the plated 
handle down with all the force of his heavy arm on 
Ephraim’s head. Then he let go. 

Ephraim spun and staggered with extended arms, 
like a drunken man, down the room, grasped the table 
to prevent himself from falling, lost consciousness for 
a moment, and woke with a start to find himself at 
the fork of the Y, murmuring to himself perplexedly— 

“ If you go to the right you are sure to go wrong, 

If you go to the left you go right.” 

The night was dark. The wind was raving among 
the distorted fir-trees behind the sign-post. 

“No,” said Ephraim, “never to the left. Always 
to the right. How could I doubt itRight always 
must be right. So —to the right ," 


AT THE Y. 


^95 


CHAPTER V. 

THE RIGHT ARM. 

Ephraim ran along the road to the right. Right must 
be right, whatever old saws might say. And right 
he was in this—that Bridget had actually taken the 
arm that turned to the right. Along that road, lead¬ 
ing due south, Bridget was hurrying with but one 
wish burning in her heart, to place as great a distance 
as she could between herself and the place where her 
faith in manly integrity had been killed, and where 
she had met with such humiliation. No wounds 
torture and canker like broken confidence. 

She heard the voice of Ephraim behind her; then 
his tread as he ran. She stood back against the bank, 
sinking into a pillow of dry heath. He had seen her, 
however, and he stopped and stood before her. She 
uttered a cry of anger and contempt, and folding her 
arms and shawl about her child, and burying her face 
in them, shouldered and elbowed him off when he 
touched her. Then, when he drew her towards him, 
and tried to kiss her, she shook herself free with a 
gesture of indignation, and cried, ‘ ‘ What do you 
follow me for } Have you not done enough to crush 
and kill me } Keep your gold and gild your black 
heart with it, to hide its villainies. Go back ! I will 
not be touched by you. I hate you ! I despise you ! 
Touch me again, and I will scream for help." 


AT THE K 


196 

Foolish girl ! exclaimed Ephraim ; ‘‘You might 
scream yourself hoarse, and none would hear you on 
this moor. But what is the meaning of this temper 
You run from me, you throw bitter words at me, and 
I am innocent of offence. Would I have come after 
you, dear Bridget, if I wanted to shake myself free } 
How came you to think so badly of me as to believe 
the lies my father told ? ” 

“ Were they lies, Eph ? ’’ 

“Of course they were. On my honour I never 
sent him to you with money. I had no suspicion that 
he intended to see you, or I would not have been 
away. The old man lied because he wanted to be 
rid of you. There, Bridget, you must trust me again ; 

I will marry you in three weeks. To-morrow is Sun¬ 
day, and the banns shall be called for the first time.’' 
“Oh, Ephraim ! is this true.? ” 

“True as I am alive, Bridget; I shall not be able 
to take you home to Longabrook, for my father turns 
me out of the house and aliepates my inheritance 
to my brother because of you. But I will ask the 
Captain of Hogster mine for work in the manganese, 
and I shall be able to maintain you, though not to 
give you the comfort I should desire. ” 

“ Your father turns you out? ” 

“Yes, Bridget.” 

“So did mine. Oh, Eph! we shall be united by 
privation and sorrow, and that is the firmest of bonds. 

I believe and trust you now, and nothing shall ever 
again shake my faith in you. You have made a sacri¬ 
fice for me, as I made a sacrifice for you. Oh, God, 
forgive me that I ever mistrusted you 1 ” 

She laid her head on his breast and wept tears of 


A T THE Y. 


197 

joy. He put his arm round her, and the storm had 
lost its violence, and the cold its keenness to her. 

Now, Bridget,he said gaily, ‘ ‘ give me the child ; 
we will go together through the village, and all shall 
see that I am not ashamed of you.” 

They walked back side by side down the long hill, 
happy as children. He took her hand, and told her 
of his struggle with old Noah, and of the spitefulness 
of his aunt. They spoke of their plans for the future. 
There was a disused cottage in moderate repair that 
he might have for a small sum. He would do the nec¬ 
essary work himself to make it weather-tight. When 
spring came they would look out for something better ; 
but during the winter the manganese mine would 
enable him to keep the wolf from the door, and the 
thatch of the cottage would cover their heads. He 
asked her about her history since he had left Dublin ; 
and her simple narrative filled him with compunction, 
and resolve to make amends for the past. She told 
him of the slights she had encountered, of her mother’s 
grief, of her father’s anger, and how she had been 
laughed to scorn when she spoke of her confidence 
in Ephraim’s honour, and reliance on his promises. 
Now she would gladden her parents’ hearts by the 
news of her marriage. 

When they reached the village they found several 
men and women at their doors or in the street. Betty 
Spry had told all her neighbours of the girl’s flight and 
Ephraim’s pursuit. 

“Good-evening, Mrs. Tooke ! Good-night, Joe 
Crossman ! ” Ephraim saluted every one he passed 
by name. “You see I’ve got a bird, now I must look 
out for a cage in which to put her.” 


A T THE K 


198 

In less than a month Bridget was Ephraim’s lawful 
wife, and they were settled in the little cottage on 
which he had set his eye. Noah Doidge and Aunt 
Judith took no notice of what went on. “ It is no 
concern of mine,” said the old man. “ Ephraim is of 
age and can suit himself. 1 am not yet in my second 
childhood, and I can suit myself.” 

Ephraim was badly off. He had very little ready 
money, not enough to furnish the cottage ; conse¬ 
quently he was forced to run into debt. The village 
shopkeeper was quite content to let him do so for 
groceries and bread and crockery; and a Tavistook 
furniture dealer let him have bed, chest of drawers, 
and table for a little ready money and some credit. 
Ephraim was a bit of a carpenter. He had tools of 
his own, which Mrs. Spry fetched for him from Long- 
abrook, and with these he mended the windows, put 
strips of wood to the doors to keep out the cold, and 
made a few necessary articles for the kitchen. He 
bought an old sugar cask and cut it half down, and 
converted it into a backed chair for the fireside. 

The winter crept along—dull December, dreary 
January, a little bright weather in February, a raw 
and wretched March. The north and northeast 
winds prevailed, there was snow and frost, and when 
that went, mud and rain. A dreary time anywhere, 
most dreary in the deep valley in which Ephraim 
dwelt, for it lay to the north of the great hogsback of 
Heathfield, and so through winter caught little sun. 
It was appropriately called Chillaton. When the sky 
was enveloped in fog and cloud, the little low room 
with its tiny windows was dark early in the evening 
and late in the morning. The workmen broke off 


A T THE Y. 


199 

from their tasks when daylight died, and the evenings 
seemed interminable. Then it was that the first 
shadows fell on the married life of Ephraim Doidge 
and Irish Breeches, as the impudent youngsters of 
Chillaton nicknamed Bridget. If it had been pos¬ 
sible for the young couple to associate with their 
fellows on good terms, all might have been well, but 
the women resented the advent of a foreigner into 
their midst ; the farmers and their families held aloof 
from the young Doidges, and Ephraim could not bring 
his mind to associate with the labourers. The farmers’ 
wives and daughters, looked unlovingly on the girl 
who had taken the place that might so much better 
have been occupied by a maiden of his own class and 
county and neighbourhood and faith ; and the farmers 
gave him the cold shoulder because he had defied and 
disobeyed his father. “He has stepped out of his 
class,” said Jeffry, “ and as he has made his bed, so 
must he lie.” Ephraim paid a visit now and then on 
Sundays to old acquaintances, but was not received 
with cordiality and invited to a meal. Hurt and dis¬ 
satisfied, he returned home in a sulk. He had found 
work at the manganese mine, but it did not suit 
him. It was hard, and of a nature to which he was 
unaccustomed. He was a cleanly man, particular 
about his personal neatness, and the grime of the 
manganese was a daily offence. When he returned 
home in the evening he grumbled at his work, and 
was impatient because the soil would not wash out 
of his neck and hands. 

Nor did Bridget find her situation pleasant. She 
made no friends. She had always lived in a capital 
town, she was reserved and dignified. The women 


200 


A T THE Y, 


of Chillaton regarded her as proud and contemptuous; 
she was better educated than they, and had no in¬ 
terest for the only thing that interested their narrow, 
empty minds, the scandal of the parish. Some few 
looked in on Bridget with the intention of making 
acquaintance with her, but her coldness repelled them. 
Had she been a Dissenter, the chapel would have 
brought her into association with others, and religion 
served as a flux to unite; but she would not go near 
their meeting-house, nor attend the parish church. 
She set up a bracket in her kitchen on which was an 
image of the Blessed Virgin'; and before this she 
hung her rosary and a pendant perpetual lamp. This 
alienated the neighbours from her more than anything 
else, and the local preacher fanned the dissatisfaction 
into a flame by preaching against the idolatries of 
Babylon and about the fires of Smithfield. The 
result was that one evening a stone was hurled through 
the window ; it smashed the image and extinguished 
the light. Ephraim was in the house at the time. 
He rushed forth, caught the delinquent as he thought, 
and in a paroxysm of fury so mauled him that he was 
summoned and fined for the assault. The young 
man who had thrown the stone was, however, not 
he who was maltreated by Ephraim ; by ill-luck Eph¬ 
raim had attacked the son of the captain of the mine, 
and this assault led to his dismissal. Then, for a 
while, he was without work or money : at last he 
went on the road under the surveyor, breaking stones 
and clearing the water-table. 

There was a superiority in Bridget, due in measure 
to her town education, which the women recognised 
and resented; and they revenged themselves for their 


A T THE Y, 


201 


consciousness of inferiority by saying that she had 
driven Ephraim into marrying her, that she had 
shown want of decency in pursuing him to England, 
and that she ought to have known better than make 
him quarrel with his father. If she went into a neigh¬ 
bours house where the women were talking, her 
appearance occasioned a dead silence. As she passed 
along the street or entered the little shop, she over¬ 
heard offensive asides, and returned home in a fever 
of indignation. Ephraim did not sufficiently sym¬ 
pathise with her trouble. “ Pshaw ! ” said he, “that 
is the way of folk. You don't belong to their set, 
so they spite you. That will wear off in time.” 

“ I won't go near them again.” 

“ Then stay at home. ” 

Ephraim began to weary of the discontented mood 
of Bridget, and the resentment she harboured towards 
those about her. Nothing pleased her. The hills 
were too high and close, they shut out the light. The 
clouds were perpetually over the sky. The weather 
was intolerable. The mud never dried up. No one 
passed along the lane ; they might as well be planted 
in the Bog of Allan. There was no Catholic chapel 
near, and what would become of her soul cut off from 
all the sacred rites.? The Devonshire people were 
odious. There was no fun in them. She had not 
heard a joke since she left Ireland. Ephraim himself 
was dull and tedious when he came home from work; 
he had nothing to say except that he disliked his 
work. It was not pleasant for her to have hints 
thrown at her in this way that she had turned him 
out of his inheritance. 

“I never hinted anything of the sort,” exclaimed 


202 


AT THE Y. 


Ephraim, surprised and indignant. He had sufficient 
of a soldier’s honour and manly generosity in him 
never to reproach her for the past. He took the 
blame entirely on himself. 

“You do so every day. If you do not speak it, 
you look it.” 

Ephraim rose from his seat; the injustice nettled 
him, already predisposed to irritation. “Upon 
my word,” he said, “the people are excusable if they 
avoid you.” He went out of the house and slammed 
the door behind him, so that the diamond panes in 
the window rattled. “This is intolerable,” he said 
to himself; “ if I cannot find peace in my own home, 
I shall go to the Stag’s Head.” He was as good as 
his word. From that day he was often of an even¬ 
ing in the tavern. He did not drink much ; he was 
never iitebriated, but he sought his pleasure else¬ 
where than at home, and made companions of labour¬ 
ing men instead of seeking the society of his wife. 
She now saw much less of him, but when he did re¬ 
turn he was in a better mood than formerly. He had 
taken enough to cheer him, and the experiences and 
anecdotes of his companions about the tavern fire 
had enlivened him. Bridget was angry at this, and 
reproached him whenever she saw his mood blithe, 
so that he began to dread his house door, expecting 
to have a wet cloth thrown over his heart the moment 
he passed through it. 

Bridget, unfortunately, was of a jealous tempera¬ 
ment. Her loneliness and dissatisfaction furnished 
the suitable elements for jealousy to spring up and 
overmaster her. Now it fell out that old Betty Spry’s 
daughter, who had been in service, came home soon 


AT THE Y. 


203 

after Christmas. She was a remarkably pretty girl,- 
with that exquisite complexion of white and rose 
which is seen nowhere in such perfection as in Devon. 
Her hair was like spun-gold. Ephraim had known 
her since she was a child, and in his genial nature 
spoke to her kindly whenever they met. He had 
been wont before her arrival to go occasionally into 
Betty Spry’s cottage and help the old woman with 
little jobs beyond her powers. He continued boing 
this after Christmas. Bridget watched him with sus¬ 
picion and jealousy. He had the indiscretion one 
day to remark to his wife how pretty Lucy Spry was. 
He spoke in all simplicity, but Bridget fired up and 
answered, “She had no doubt he thought so, as he 
was always dancing after her." 

Ephraim’s eyes opened wide. He did not take in 
at first what Bridget meant; when he did he burst 
out laughing. The idea of her being jealous of that 
little scatterbrain Lucy was too ridiculous to be en¬ 
tertained seriously. One Sunday morning Ephraim 
had been to church. Bridget sat at home by her 
window looking out discontentedly. Here was she in 
a land as good as heathen, without having heard mass 
since she left Ireland, or a prospect of hearing it again. 

How could she die in such a place.? 

There had been much rain whilst her husband was 
away ; indeed it seemed as though a waterspout must 
have broken over the hill, for a torrent swept across 
the lane ankle deep, where usually there was but a 
dribble. Dinner was ready: the little table was laid, 
but Ephraim did not arrive as early as usual. He 
would pretend that the sermon was long. She knew 
better. He was loitering in the churchyard, gossip- 


204 


A T THE Y. 


ing with the men, or sauntering along the lane with 
Lucy Spry. As this thought came into her mind, she 
heard voices, and, looking out of the window, saw 
Ephraim with old Betty and her daughter in the lane, 
arrested by the stream. The three were laughing, 
and Ephraim was evidently making a proposal to 
carry Betty over on his back, for the old woman drew 
back and slapped him on the arm. Then without 
more ado, Ephraim caught Lucy up, and carried her 
in his strong arms through the water. When he got 
in the middle, where the current was most rapid and 
the water deepest, he made pretence that his strength 
was exhausted and he was going to drop her. Thereat 
Lucy screamed and threw her arms round his neck, 
and clung to him. Bridget’s eyes flashed, her cheeks 
flamed, and she dashed her hand against the window 
so that it rattled, and the noise woke the child in its 
cradle. It began to cry. She ran to it, snatched it 
to her roughly, and stood with glaring face, panting 
bosom, and threatening brow in the midsf of the room. 
The stroke on the glass must have been heard by those 
without, but as Bridget was no longer at the window, 
they paid no regard to it. 

A minute after, Ephraim entered, smiling and fresh 
in colour, without a suspicion that he had offended 
Bridget. “Well, dear wife! Dinner ready? I’m 
hungry as a hunter. ” 

She did not answer. 

“Why, what is the matter now? Stepped out of 
bed wrong foot foremost again ? ” Then he went up 
to her to kiss her. 

“Don’t touch me!” she cried, hoarse with rage 
and flaming jealousy. “ Run after that pretty Lucy 


A 7 ' THE K 205 

outside whom you have been tossing and kissing. 
Shame on you—you a married man.” 

“Good heavens ! ” exclaimed Ephraim, “ you would 
not have me leave two women on the wrong side of 
the water to wait till the stream ran away. Is it a 
misdemeanour deserving of transportation that I carry 
an old woman and her daughter through a torrent 
they must cross to reach home } ” 

“ Indeed ! Do you think I am not well aware why 
you are now never at home } You are glad enough 
that I do not go about to neighbours’ cottages to see 
your proceedings. No wonder the idiots here look 
at me as they do, and burst into titters behind me 
when I pass. Would that you had let me go my 
way when I ran from this place, and that I had not 
been such a fool as to listen to you. Then you might 
spend your time in helping the girls over the water, 
and taking off them what toll you liked.” 

“ I have done you no wrong,” answered Ephraim, 
commanding himself. “ Be not unreasonable, Brid¬ 
get ; serve dinner and have done, ” 

“ I will not have done,” she cried. “ I have been 
with you long enough, insulting me, holding me up 
to the mockery of your boon companions. I know 
what happens when you are at the tavern. You laugh 
and jest over my foreign ways and Catholic faith.” 

“ Bridget, you are mad ! ” exclaimed Ephraim ; and 
to avoid further recrimination he left the house, and 
went without his dinner. 

Such scenes became more frequent. Ephraim was 
inconsiderate; it was his nature. He loved Bridget 
dearly, but a bitterness lay at the bottom of his soul 
which he could not get rid of, the bitterness of feeling 


2o6 


AT THE Y. 


himself unjustly suspected and treated. He thought 
to himself, “Winter will soon be over, and when 
summer comes we will leave this place, which has 
become hateful to me. I will get a situation where 
Bridget can take in washing, and then she will not 
brood over her diseased fancies. 

A new trouble fell on them ; the cold March winds 
brought on congestion of the lungs to the child, and 
it was very ill. Then the religious sense in Bridget, 
which had slumbered, woke up in all its intensity. 
She knelt in agony before her crucifix and said her 
beads. But her prayers were in vain. The child 
died, and Bridget was frantic with despair. This was 
God’s judgment on her for having married a Prot¬ 
estant. How could she expect the Saints to hear 
her prayers in an alien land.? “Come, come, wife,” 
said Ephraim, “Catholics lose their little ones as well 
as Protestants, and the Saints are bigger fools than I 
supposed if they won’t listen to one under a Devon¬ 
shire sky.” 

When he attended the funeral, a friend accom¬ 
panied him, and said to him, “Well, Eph, I hope 
you will soon have another to console you both for 
your loss.” 

“ I don’t know,” answered the young man, “ I 
reckon the Saints are in too blue a sulk to give us 
one. ” 

His companion did not understand him. He 
looked at him, and was puzzled with the expression 
of his face. Bridget's words had stung him to the 
quick, and the barb remained rankling in his heart. 
He could not withhold sneers at the Saints who had 
to be wheedled to this, and might be offended by 


A T THE K 


207 

that. He had not the instinct to see that by these 
g-ibes he was still further alienating his wife. Her 
religion was that to which she held as to the holiest 
and purest essence of life, and he was foolish enough 
to shock this, and set himself before her in the light 
of one profane. 

One of the first to come and endeavour to comfort 
the bereaved parents was Ephraim’s friend the school¬ 
master. He was an Irishman by birth, not by parent¬ 
age, and his presence gave Bridget unfeigned delight. 
She was able to talk to him of the dear old country ; 
he knew Dublin, and the part of it where she had 
lived, and could speak of the beautiful bay, and the 
hill of Howth—all in her own dialect, which, when 
the two were together, came out in both full- 
flavoured. 

At first Ephraim was pleased at his friend’s visits, 
and at the pleasure they afforded to Bridget, but after 
a while he began to dislike them. Bridget always 
greeted the young shoolmaster with a smile, but he 
himself was met with a sullen brow. Bridget noticed 
his dissatisfaction and was gratified by it. Her 
husband was becoming jealous. He must therefore 
love her. He would be more attentive and kind to 
her for the future, she trusted. She was not aware 
what an edged tool she was playing with. 

One Saturday, when Ephraim returned from his 
work, he found the schoolmaster in his house talking 
to Bridget. He was too proud to show the man that 
his presence offended him, but when the schoolmaster 
was gone he told his wife that he would not have the 
man encouraged to visit there so frequently. 

“ You had better lock me up in a cupboard when 


2 o8 


A T THE K 


you are away/’ answered Bridget. You are capable 
of doing so. You grudge me the only pleasure I 
have now—that of seeing and conversing with a 
gountryman.” 

“You know my wish, Bridget,” said Ephraim 
sternly. “ Do not drive me to desperation.” 

“Drive you to desperation!” exclaimed Bridget 
scornfully. “As if anything I could do was not 
indifferent to you.” 

Ephraim looked at her. There was something in 
his face that awed her for a moment—a light in his 
eye, a fixity of the jaw', she was unaccustomed to. 
Ephraim was an easy-going, good-natured fellow, but 
there was below his gentleness and indifference a 
strain of Doidge violence. It had scintillated of late, 
but had never blazed up. 

After this Bridget was more cautious ; she did not 
meet the schoolmaster alone. When she saw him 
coming down the lane she left the house by the back¬ 
door, or retired to her bedroom and did not answer 
his knock. But this did not last long. She argued 
herself into the belief that her husband was doing her 
an injustice by suspecting her of having regard for 
another beyond her duty. Then came the Whitsun 
holidays. 

Whitsun Monday was a brilliant spring day. The 
club feast was to be at one o’clock, and service in the 
parish church before. Ephraim had joined the club, 
and would certainly attend. He marched with the 
men to church with a brass band before them, and 
thence to the Stag’s Head where the committee met 
and the men dined. This was Ephraim’s first year ; 
he must attend the dinner. Scarcely had the pro- 


AT THE K 


209 

cession passed on the return from church, when 
Bridget went into the little garden behind the house ; 
she took a bowl in her lap and began shelling peas. 
The day was so lovely, the birds sang so sweetly, the 
primroses and the bluebells in the bank smiled at her 
so pleasantly, that for a while the cloud of troubles 
rolled off her heart and the sun shone on it. She 
began to sing “ St. Patrick’s Day in the Morning.” 

As she sang, she heard a man’s voice put in a 
second and presently the schoolmaster was beside 
her. She made room for him by her on the bench, 
and asked him if he would help to shell the peas. 
Then she struck up another Irish air, and he sang 
with her. Her heart was light. 

“What a happy man Eph Doidge is,” said the 
young man, “to have so pretty and bright a little 
wife. ” 

“ He might be happy,” she said and sighed. 

“Might—he must.” 

“ He ought to be, certainly,” she said. 

“A most ungrateful man to Providence if he does 
not value his happiness.” 

“I wish he did value it!” She sighed again. 
“But he does not love his home as he should.” 

“Why do you sigh } Are you not happy.? ” 

“ Happy.?—oh—yes ; ” she hesitated in her answer. 

Then by degrees all her troubles, her cause of dis¬ 
content, were drawn from her. No, drawn was not 
the word. When, after a little urgency on his part, 
she had begun to speak of the things that made her 
unhappy, the dislike borne her by the people about, 
the loneliness she felt, then her tongue ran on unre¬ 
strained, and she poured forth the whole tale of her 
14 


210 


A T THE Y. 


wrongs. The music of the band came to them wafted 
on the soft, warm air ; the flies buzzed round them, a 
white butterfly danced about the young cabbages, 
the thorns were blooming and exhaling sweet fra¬ 
grance. 

“Poor Bridget,” said the schoolmaster; “you 
would, I am sure, like to be back in dear old Ireland ? ” 
He took her hand, but she drew it away sharply. 

Then from the door behind burst Ephraim, his 
face transformed with mad fury, his blue eyes flaming 
like brimstone. Bridget sprang up with a cry of 
terror. She was innocent of everything but indiscre¬ 
tion, and she would have answered the question of 
the schoolmaster with a negative ; but Ephraim was 
not in a mood to listen to reasen, to believe in her 
innocence. He snatched the bowl from her and 
dashed it to pieces on the garden walk, then, grasping 
her wrist, he swung her away with such force that 
she fell against the wall. 

‘ ‘ Are you mad, ” asked the schoolmaster, ‘ ‘ that you 
treat your wife like this.? ” 

“ Mad, mad ! ” yelled Ephraim, rushing at him ; “ I 
will show you that I am mad, as you say. Do you 
think that I have not heard you both } Not heard 
her slandering me to you.? not heard you ask her to 
run away with you to Ireland } ” 

“This is all crazy folly,” said the schoolmaster; 
“listen to reason, and I will speak to you.” 

“ Listen to reason, indeed, when you come into my 
garden like a serpent to deceive my Eve! What I 
heard with my ears I know, and you cannot talk me 
into disbelieving that. By heaven ! ” he cried, his fury 
bursting forth in another paroxysm—and it was as 


A T THE K 


2 II 


though a sheet of fire rose before his face and eyes, 
blinding him. “I care not what happens to me ; my 
life has been wretched enough of late. I will have 
one satisfaction—that of dashing out your brains.” 

The look of Ephraim was so threatening that the 
young schoolmaster recoiled. Eph seized a clothes- 
stake and endeavoured to work it out of the ground. 
The others took the opportunity to dart into and 
through the house. Ephraim let go the post at once, 
and went after them. The master ran ; he saw that 
his life was in jeopardy, that the other was too mad 
with jealousy and hate to consider what he was 
doing. He ran down the lane, closely pursued. Be¬ 
fore the inn the band was performing “There is nae 
luck about the house.” The frightened man looked 
right, left, over his shoulder ; in another minute he 
would be overtaken. Then he sprang in at the tavern 
door, and burst, wild with terror, into the room where 
the first sitting-down of the club was gathered about 
the table, on which smoked roast beef and boiled suet 
pudding. The rector was standing at the head say¬ 
ing, “For what we are going to receive—” when, 
with a cry, the pursued man was in the room, and in 
another instant Ephraim after him. There ensued a 
hubbub. Those present put out their arms, and threw 
their bodies in the way to arrest the young men. In 
their surprise and in the confusion they did not under¬ 
stand which was in pursuit; and whether it was not 
a case of “Stop, thief! ” 

“Don’t let him go. Hold him fast!” shouted 
Ephraim, shaking off the man who held him. 
“Hands off. I will catch him.” Two strong miners 
threw themselves in the way. He sent them spin- 


212 


AT THE Y, 


ning, one against the wall, the other against the 
table. He grasped the schoolmaster’s throat with 
both hands and dashed him back on the table, among 
broken glasses and spilled gravy. The young man, 
thus thrown backwards, uttered a shriek of fear and 
entreaty. 

There was a roar in Ephraim’s ears, “Will you 
strangle him ? ” “ Let the fellow go ! ” Are you 

mad } ” He gave no heed to the cries. As hands 
were laid on his arms to wrench them from his 
victim, with demoniacal strength he shook them 
off. He threw himself to right and left, driving his 
assailants back, and his hands tightened on the 
schoolmaster’s throat, whose eyes were starting and 
his face purple. Then, in desperate dread lest, with 
so many interfering, his victim might escape, he let 
go one hand, snatched up the great carving knife by 
the rector’s dish of beef, and drove it into the heart of 
his enemy. 

The violence of the blow exhausted him. He felt 
that his senses were deserting him. The room spun 
round, and he lost consciousness for a moment. The 
last he saw was—eyes, eyes, eyes staring full of 
horror and reproach at him out of a blue mist, on all 
sides. 

Then with a start he recovered himself, to find 
himself standing with his hand to his head, at the 
fork of the Y, muttering :— 

“ If I go to the right I am sure to go wrong, 

If I go to the left I’m not right.” 

He shook his heavy head. The night was dark ; not 
a star was visible. “ Which is it to be ? ” he asked; 
‘ ‘ which, or neither ? All lead wrong. Neither. ” 


AT THE K 


21$ 


CHAPTER VI. 

NEITHER. 

Ephraim walked into the kitchen at Longabrook. 
His father was smoking, and his aunt ironing. 
Neither spoke to him. “Are you going to sell the 
heifer, father ? ” 

“Yes, I reckon.” 

“The pigs have been over the orchard hedge 
again,” said Aunt Judy. 

“Til put up a bar to-morrow,” said Ephraim. 
“ That was not enough I put up to-day.” 

After a while he said, “I’m unaccountably tired. 
I think, father. Til go to bed. ” 

Never after was the name either of Bridget or of 
Susanna mentioned by the three. Ephraim asked no 
questions. He went about his work as usual, but he 
often puzzled his head with the question, ‘ ‘ Did I go 
to the left, or to the right, or did I do neither ? ” He 
was never able to answer that question satisfactorily. 
“Tm always at the Y,” he said; “I stick {here, and 
so I reckon do some others in this world ” :— 

“ If we go to the right we are sure to go wrong, 

If we go to the left we’re not right.” 


1^- vr 


■I]:'- 


■'.w. 


*> 


\1, V •'^-r/.•*»*, . ♦ 

; ur -■ * ■ ' 








• '"t • 1 






- 4 ' 


m 


9 


.zuuas^floo >50WM 


^'i 

. .-* 1 




,V- ' > 












i>. 




I* ' ' 




:o'- 


s a: >1 iM:# ^ «fiw . I •.'■^a ?.-jt?'?Y t^^cqA 

I .bah'fsmrii/ hnf^ /niKt:->iu iir>iifi.»,.^vii4V f. tio\oo;fjo'. 

"‘'rtl'ubrjf G :ij yiitdi m })3vbf>f.‘sTf'rii 

■ . ...^ ' ■- . r- j, 

i'llo ruz yj kjo>i . 

iil'vv, ib: tfoimh <hiyr ” 

in'dj ,:x[}d' /'aoii t't • i>}!^ hmz OiijTioli;*,, 

\'mo J3rtv'0.a Jyjr.il* oW ^n-.j ai '>irfx; 

.^5 .<tsj(.<.’ -7G(i l-fUi ^J'(si>(ii/S iio'- 


aa-v ^6;“7fx£:7 a';^:v/{*; ffj v/ iQiuiixJ tfsi ^ 


. h 


,/’%n6 ,^jan-e, ~iji; in'•.-aFjr^'o '"< 

' t, — * • K ' ' 

t)fifz ndlfjjld:j Ltzd !-.\'j ’l3’.y.jrr} ur 'vr^if^i'r.'f^- ' ‘ 




: i'Crt .‘;\v 'il-jocfi ur 

'.;V’'A/' .V)^kI‘ iU i\C ' r{’»7/ii ' V 

nra, v(a<fa'{^iavT dlrw '(rutfirn-a^^lriTui bra^ a^an>>:)L . - 

■]fe»n' ty.i 'v/r ybipf?, ^ 1 ::!! 'Hij.jio .,vF'>il)i>j.'(^ b)ji^i y 
T'i'^d .*■ t'ij;i''i ‘Hfbn'.'i . ■'-'»<;ji,to<;T ^;^I8’ 'j'aljaiii ,■• ■■i-'ii 


\. 




<;r>y; im.f'* 


hVidvd 


oonar.H' 






!U- 






, A y*- 

S'.' . ., 


'<uH V/'I |jK/tOUb.'l>i'. Ofit ,fJl..uirft >. ,ii evf\‘ 

20 ^b^■la«'q F)ii\r.t ^iu'.'bb.jq' ■'•■'// "'1;$ 

; ' •• ' ■ qjnu'‘|->.j;q n qj 

i>-;r{7vi J'di d'WJ ^lVA' Jj ‘//Oil :‘0:’.Ob'l . ; 

■jvt;-f.'>l I... i'.> 

■ ‘j 'f 


i d.i:...' X aJ i.y>7a<f ■},">i*'> qxT ■-^.‘•''‘jsiijt^Wi i■ d' ii vi."*’’ '•*‘'^•'1 


Ifo 7,5r:j»; -fo^r >vh ?■ 
MiHil - 


bib: ■^x;i b,' 


'!l^ Q.U 
A 






e-^ 


■V 


' V* *• * 

, - 

1 ■ 

-.. .'a 

% ' 

,• 1 

> . ( ^ 

4 ^' 


• ' . . 1 

' \*y» 

y 

• « A ■, 


* " 

. ■ V ■ 



MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


About thirty years ago I was clerk in a lawyer^s 
office, on a very small income, and unmarried. I 
then lodged in Ebury Street, Belgravia, in a lodging 
and boarding house kept by an eminently old maid. 
Miss Jones, who treated all her boarders with con¬ 
sideration, and did not exact from them more than 
they were able to pay. We dined at her house only 
on Sundays and on Christmas Day—that is, unless 
invited out. The dinner was always early—at one 
o’clock—and always followed the same order. On 
the first Sunday in the month we had chicken and 
bacon ; on the second, boiled beef, garnished with 
carrots and turnips (alternating with parsnips), and 
suet pudding; on the third Sunday we had roast 
mutton and fried potatoes ; on the fourth, roast beef 
and mashed or boiled potatoes. When there were 
five Sundays in a month, the additional Sunday was 
supplied with beef-steak pudding, three pounds of 
beef to a pudding. 

I do not know how it was that the boiled potatoes 
at Miss Jones’s always tasted of dish-clout. I know 
very well that potatoes are not boiled in a cloth ; 
nevertheless the pudding, which is, did not taste of 
the clout, and the potatoes did. There are several 



2i6 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


insoluble mysteries encountered in life—this was one. 

Our landlady was tall, pale, sandy-haired. She 
lived en deshabille in the kitchen all the morning ; but 
at 9 A.M. at breakfast, and at 4 p.m., when we boarders 
dropped in from our work, she was prim, laced, 
curled, and stately. How she managed to become 
so in a few minutes, I never knew. That also was 
one of the insoluble mysteries of life. 

When one of us stayed at home indisposed, we 
found that by 9.30 a. m. she was what we called in 
our slang “dish-shovelled”: not a curl in place, a 
smirch across her cheek, and her neat merino gown 
replaced by a ragged dress not fit for a lady to wear. 

Miss Jones was the ideal maiden lady of propriety, 
dignity, and thrift. She was good-natured; on one 
point, however, she was inexorable — she never 
allowed her lodgers to fall into debt ; we paid weekly 
beforehand, one pound per head. She had an affable 
smile, and similar remarks on the weather for all her 
boarders. Each had a rasher of bacon of the same 
size at breakfast, and two lumps of sugar in his tea, 
and one spoonful of brown sugar in his coffee. Each, 
also, had an egg, and all the eggs tasted of limewater 
or sawdust alike. 

All the boarders were males except one, an old lady 
with a false front, who never was able to get her 
collar to remain in position. It gyrated round her 
throat. She wore also a set of false teeth ; both jaws 
were thus furnished—how contrived we never quite 
made out. That also remains one of the insoluble 
mysteries of life. They were somehow contrived to 
fit with springs, and were so badly contrived that in 
eating she did not look her best, and sometimes pre- 


MAJOR CORNEL/US, 


217 

sentied a very unattractive spectacle indeed. The old 
lady did not like us and we did not like her. She 
often had devilled kidneys for breakfast, we never, but 
she paid- extra for them ; and when she had them, 
then inevitably the teeth went out of gear. Behind 
her back we were accustomed to mimic her; she 
knew it by some extraordinary intuition, mysterious 
to us for a long time, till we discovered that the maid- 
of-all-work had sneaked to her of what we said and 
did. She scarcely spoke to us at meals, except in a 
peremptory way, to have the mustard or toast passed 
to her. We took a malicious pleasure in neglecting 
to anticipate her wants, and force her to demand the 
butter or toast, etc., and not to hear her requests to 
have them passed, till she raised her voice angrily 
and repeated them very loudly, when we immedi¬ 
ately began to serve her with mustard, pepper, egg- 
spoons, empty sardine tins, any and every thing, 
with mock eagerness to forestall her little wants. 
We were rude to the old lady, I admit, but she was 
very aggravating. However, my story has nothing 
to do with her, so I may dismiss her ; it concerns an 
old gentleman who was our co-lodger and boarder at 
Miss Jones’s pension. He was Major Cornelius, a 
thin, grey-haired man, with a refined face, and the 
most delicately cut nostrils I think I ever saw. He 
was closely shaven. He was scrupulously careful 
about his clothes, and, though they were old and 
threadbare, no one could doubt that he was a gentle¬ 
man by birth, breeding and in feeling. There was 
something very sweet and prepossessing about his 
face. It was pale and grave, but a kindly smile 
lurked about the delicate mouth, and the grey eyes 


2i8 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


were soft. He was rather lame, from a wound he 
had received at Waterloo. He had his pension, and 
he lived on that; he had nothing besides to live on. 
That, however, would have sufficed to keep him in 
comfort had he not in an evil hour stood security for 
a younger brother. We none of us knew the circum¬ 
stances exactly, and I cannot now say what was 
truth and what was conjecture in the story whispered 
among us. My impression is that the brother, to 
whom he was devotedly attached, had not behaved 
honourably ; he had left the country, and the major's 
resources were strained to the utmost to meet the 
demand that came on him as security. We none of 
us ventured to allude to this topic; the disgrace 
rankled in the old man's heart; there was an ever- 
open wound there, which we were careful not to 
touch. 

There was a childlike simplicity in the old man 
which rather amused us youngsters then ; now, look¬ 
ing back on him, 1 find it was infinitely touching. 
We, however, laughed over it—we knew much more 
of the world than he. To Miss Jones and to the old 
lady with the teeth he was courteous, with an old- 
fashioned courtesy that flattered them and won their 
hearts. He paid Miss Jones the same as we, one 
pound per week, but he dined daily at home. We 
used to say that Miss Jones set her cap at the major, 
and that she only allowed him to remain on these 
moderate terms because she desired to become Mrs 
Cornelius. I do not believe it was so. I think she 
strained a point so as to retain an old Waterloo 
officer in her house, to give it an air of superiority 
above other boarding-houses in the street 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


219 

Whenever I think of Major Cornelius I remember 
his hair. I have already said it was thin ; it was 
always elaborately brushed and watered, the hair 
drawn forward from behind the ear, and turned in a 
sort of curl over-the temple. His collars were always 
clean and very stiff, and his black cravat tight about 
his throat. 

A kind old man! When Robbins was ill with 
rheumatic fever, he sat up with him night after night 
and ministered to him as a nurse. When Robbins 
was better and able to receive our call, he sat up in 
his bed, leaning on the major, who had his arm round 
him, and smiled and looked as pleased with our con¬ 
gratulations as though that vulgar Robbins had been 
his own son. 

A kind old man ! He allowed us youngsters to 
poke little harmless jokes at him. We called him the 
Centurion. When an Italian band stayed playing in 
Ebury Street, we would tell him his proper place was 
to lead it. On Sundays, when he arrived for dinner, 
one of us would ask, “Been to church, major.? ’’ Then 
Robbins or another would answer, “Of course he 
has. What is the good of asking ? Does not Scrip¬ 
ture tell us that Cornelius was a devout centurion .? ” 
These little exhibitions of feeble fun he bore with great 
good-humour, but we instinctively felt that there was a 
limit we must not transgress. The only man among 
us, coarse in perception, who could not recognise 
this, was Robbins. When he pushed his buffoonery 
too far, the major would rise, bow, and leave the 
room. Then the rest of us fell upon, sat upon, and 
flattened out Robbins. 

The major dined daily with Miss Jones at the lodg- 


220 


MAJOR CORNELIUS, 


ing-house. We never knew of what that week-day 
dinner consisted, but we believed it was made out of 
the remains of the great Sunday feast. After chicken 
Sunday the fare must have been poor. After beef and 
mutton Sundays, the meat no doubt was minced, and 
overlaid with a blanket of potato as cottage pudding 
—much potato and little mince; or was served as hari¬ 
cot with carrot and large sippets of toast; or was lost in 
batter and called toad-in-a-hole; or buried in boiled 
dough. We did not know, we only guessed. No 
information could be extracted from the major when 
we inquired after the “cold remains," or the “ vener¬ 
able relics,” or “Duke Humphrey’s dinner.” He 
would answer gently, without a smile, ‘ ‘ I assure you 
Miss Jones and I have fared sumptuously.” The old 
man practised the severest economy. He denied 
himself everything he could ; he drank only water at 
dinner and supper. Each of us had his separate jug; 
one had stout, another pale ale, another bitter beer; 
Robbins drank brandy-and-water; the old lady Mar¬ 
sala. Ale meant to the major fourpence a day, or 
two-and-fourpence a week that is, over six pounds per 
annum, and the six pounds were needed for necessaries. 
His boots were to him a constant source of uneasi¬ 
ness, care and alarm. Boots come expensive, and go 
quickly. The same pair was soled and re-soled, till 
the crease over the toe on the outside roughened, 
then parted. Still they encased his feet. A little 
blackened grease filled the split, some sticking-plaster 
disguised it and was polished over; but these were 
expedients postponing the evil day, nothing more. 
That the major pinched and screwed to raise the 
money for a new pair we all knew, and we all no- 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


221 


ticed the tenderness with which the new boots were 
regarded, how they were spared work, kept indoors 
when the streets were muddy and the rain fell. 

The long slender fingers—they were nearly trans¬ 
parent—were wonderfully skilful with the needle. 
The major repaired his own garments : we believed 
that he mended his own stockings. The maid told 
us his darning was beautiful. One day that Robbins 
stayed at home with a cold, he heard the Major ask 
the maid-of-all-work very kindly to let him have a 
hot flat-iron in his room. Next Sunday he appeared 
in brilliant—well, clothes, ahd we found he had turned 
an old pair himself; we noticed that they bulged m, 
instead of out, at the knee for some weeks, till they 
accommodated themselves to their altered situation. 

If Major Cornelius was self-denying in the matter 
of drink and clothing, it was not that he could not 
appreciate generous liquor, and was not particular 
about dress. On the contrary, he was a good judge 
of wines, and he was fastidious about garments. I 
am sure that nothing galled his self-esteem more than 
to have to dress shabbily. He did as much of his 
own washing as he well could with a can of boiling 
water in his own basin. Washing is a heavy item 
in expenditure in London. I believe that some of the 
majors garments were so thin, threadbare, and 
patched, that he was ashamed to send them to the 
wash, lest they should be commented on, and that 
therefore he did his best with them at home. 

His bedroom was high up, in the attic. He paid 
less than we, and was therefore obliged to put up 
with inferior accommodation. In winter he suffered 
much, I fear, from want of fire. The parlour fire was 


222 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


not lighted till 4 p. m., so that it was beginning reluc¬ 
tantly to burn up when the clerks returned from their 
offices. In his own room, under the slates, it was 
cold ; nevertheless he sat there wt^eii the bed was 
made, that is, from about noon to four. Before that 
he remained in the parlour, watching the expiring of 
the little fire lit for show, not warmth, during break¬ 
fast. Only in the coldest weather would he descend 
to the kitchen for a few moments, to stand by the 
stove and warm his hands, whilst Miss Jones, “dish- 
shovelled," hid in the pantry. If the day were frosty 
he walked out, to put his blood in circulation, and 
then his cheeks warmed into colour—a bright colour 
in his clear skin like the roses in a child. 

That old cat with the teeth and the false front and 
the rotary collar rented the first floor and had her own 
sitting-room, and a fire there; but, from motives of 
delicacy, no doubt, and for fear of establishing a 
precedent, never invited the major to it. 

He was so modest that it was only casually we 
learned that he had once moved in the best circles, 
and had acquaintances high in military positions and 
titled. He visited and was visited by none of them. 
Since that affair of his brother he had withdrawn 
himself from his fellows ; he shrank from meeting 
those who knew the circumstances, and he suspected 
more of being aware of them than really did know. 
He was very proud—not haughty, understand—but 
with a sense of his honour and breeding which made 
him reserved. 

One luxury he would not give up, the luxury ot 
giving gratuities to all who served him. I believe that 
the half-crowns as “ vales" to the footmen who took 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


223 

his greatcoat, hat, and gloves had much to do with 
his refusing the invitations he at one time received 
weekly from old brother officers and friends. He 
could not be mean, and to avoid the wound to his 
self-respect of seeming mean he would not go to his 
fellows. At last invitations, always declined, ceased 
to come in. 

The winter of 1852 was cold. On November 18 
the Duke of Wellington was buried in St. Paul’s 
Cathedral, with great display of military pomp. Our 
old friend was one of the veterans who walked in the 
procession. That winter saw the fall of the Conser¬ 
vative Ministry under Lord Derby, and the fall of 
something much nfore important—at least to us, in 
Miss Jones’s establishment—the falling to pieces of 
the major’s greatcoat. We had followed the progress 
of decay in that venerable article of clothing for 
some time with interest, and we had wondered what 
the major would do when it was worn completely 
out. We hoped it would hold out the winter. It 
did not : it fell to pieces with the Derby Ministry. 

The old man’s face grew long; he fell into de¬ 
pression ; no joke stirred him, no news interested 
him. It was obvious to all that his mind was en¬ 
grossed with one absorbing question, how to provide 
himself with another greatcoat. 

Then we residents under the roof of Miss Jones 
took counsel together, and discussed the possibility of 
providing him with one. Should we subscribe the 
requisite sum—that is, amongst ourselves ? We were 
none of us well off, but we were ready to make a 
sacrifice to help the old man to a new coat. As for 
that woman on the first floor with the teeth, we did 


224 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


not consult her—selfish beast! she ate her two kid¬ 
neys herself and never offered a bite to the major. 

Although we would gladly have found the money, 
yet we felt that the plan was not feasible. The major 
was sensitive on the subject of his poverty, and the 
offer would offend his pride. We must help him 
some other way. Then I suggested that the major 
should be induced to write his reminiscences of 
Waterloo, and that his MS. should be sent to a 
magazine. Thus the money might be made by him¬ 
self. He was far too humble a man to think of 
this expedient unprompted. We formed a deputation 
and waited on him, and entreated him, as a favour to 
ourselves, that he would put on paper his recollections 
of the Great Duke, and of Lord Uxbridge, of Picton, 
and of the battle, and then, that he would give his 
production to the world. He was frightened at 
the suggestion and demurred to it. He had never 
written a line that had been printed, he knew nothing 
of literary form, he remembered nothing of real im¬ 
portance. We overruled his objections ; we recalled 
one incident and anecdote after another with which 
we had been favoured. We told him that we could 
not expect to be all our lives in Miss Jones’s boarding¬ 
house, and that in our after-life we wished to possess 
a memorial of one whom we valued, and loved, and 
reverenced as a father. 

The old man’s eyes filled when we said this ; he 
could not answer us ; his mouth twitched, he held out 
his hand, and it shook as he squeezed each of ours in 
turn. 

“ Besides,” said I, “I am an engrossing clerk, so 
shall be able to give literary character to the Recol- 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


225 

lections, and write them in a legible hand, which 
goes, I understand, a long way with the reader to a 
publisher/’ 

Now whilst the composition of this literary venture 
was in progress, the weather turned bitterly cold, and 
the major caught a chill and coughed much. It was 
high time for him to provide himself with a greatcoat. 
He felt as though a cold hand were laid on his back 
between the shoulders, numbing him—in fact, the 
greatcoat had parted at the seam in the rear. 

He overhauled the old garment, to see whether it 
would be possible for him to repair it himself. He 
tried the parted seam, but the threads would not hold, 
they frayed the edges. No ! only a professional 
could, so to speak, set the greatcoat on its legs again. 
Then he took it to a Mr. Dawkins, a small working 
tailor who lived in a side lane. Mr, Dawkins sat on 
his table, his legs crossed, and without his shoes, his 
feet encased in not over-clean white stockings. With 
his toes he grasped the leg of a pair of trousers which 
he was re-seating. Mr. Dawkins was a pasty-faced, 
small-pox-marked man, with thick black hair and a 
black, frowsy chin. 

The major knew the tailor, and the tailor knew 
him. Indeed, the man did many little jobs for the 
gentlemen at Miss Jones’s. Mr. Dawkins’s eye at 
once recognised the customer, and then travelled 
down to his arm to see what hung over it for him to 
operate upon. 

“ How are you this morning, Mr. Dawkins ? ” 

Not at all well. Out of sorts all over. How can 
a man be well when he slaves all day and is worried 
all night by a teething baby .? Squall, squall, squall ! 

I 


226 


MAJOR COR ME LIUS. 


Look at my hand how it shakes. I am unnerved by 
that odious brat. I wish it were not against the law 
to drown babies. Mine would soon go over Waterloo 
Bridge." 

“ How can you, Robert" exclaimed his wife, look¬ 
ing into the room. 

“Go back to your work. I was not speaking to 
you," ordered the tailor. “ I don't know what sort of 
work you have for me to do, major, but I tell you 
beforehand I can only boggle it with this shaking 
hand. Till the baby’s teeth are cut no work worth 
looking at comes out of this shop. Well, major, what 
is it.?" 

“ I’ve come to—to—just—indeed—really—with—. ’’ 
When the major was nervous his eloquence forsook 
him, he expressed himself in adverbs and prepositions, 
and left the imagination to supply the verbs and 
substantives. . He stood still, uttering, thinking he 
had said his say, or forgetting what his purpose was. 

“Well, sir! what do you want with me?” asked 
Dawkins, casting a scrutinising glance at Major Cor¬ 
nelius, and examining every garment he wore with 
the eye of a critic, remorseless over defects. He looked 
for rent, hole, lost button, frayed sleeve, whitened 
elbow, worn trouser-foot, burst-out buttonhole. 

“The—the—greatcoat. I—that is—it—if—with— 
by any means—ybu see it is—well nearly—^just a 
little the worse for wear, but otherwise good—no, 
not new—between the shoulders—yes, I see—at the 
elbow also—the collar, you observe—and the lappets 
—the tail, I think—with a little—’’ 

Mr. Dawkins took the greatcoat and spread it over 
his knees. 


MA/OJ\! CORNELIUS. 


227 


It is not quite new, ” said the major apologetically. 
“It is not, indeed, at all new ; but, I think, with 
your admirable skill it may be given another lease 
of life, say ten years more service. It has been an 
old and excellent garment, has kept me snug, and 
screened me from many a chill. 1 have become at¬ 
tached to the coat, and do not wish to abandon it.” 

Dawkins said nothing, but his face assumed a sar¬ 
castic expression the major did not like. Then he 
shook his head, raised the coat and held it before the 
window, d'he light revealed all its imperfections 
with cruel directiness, it streamed through the rents, 
it struggled through the threadbare tracts. Then he 
turned the greatcoat on one side, and explored the 
right sleeve, and shook his head. Then he turned it 
over on the other side, and studied the left sleeve ; 
then he shook his head again. Next he turned the 
pockets inside out; then he went over the collar, and 
broke into a short laugh. Then he examined the 
lining and shook the coat, and threw it contempt¬ 
uously on the table at his feet. 

“No good—but for the ragman.” 

IMajor Cornelius turned deadly white. The room 
swam round with him, the floor heaved and fell, as 
though it were the cabin of a transport in the Bay of 
Biscay. He who would have marched fearless to 
the mouth of a cannon, shook in his shoes before 
Mr. Dawkins. 

“ I think, Mr. Dawkins, you are mistaken. A bit 
of cloth put behind that angular tear, and a strip 
where the seam has parted, would make the old coat 
hold for some time longer ; and if the cloth be thin, 
some lining and wadding, which are inexpensive, 


228 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


would supply the requisite warmth. The thing is 
feasible if you would give your valuable time and 
thought to it.” 

“ Not possible. The cloth is utterly worn out. It 
will not bear a thread; look here ! ” he began to rip. 
The major uttered a cry—the only cry he had uttered 
since he was a baby. “In pity! Mr. Dawkins I 
Do not deal so roughly with my coat.” 

“Nothing can be done with it. Take it to the rag- 
shop. ” 

“ I have heard that cloth can be patched by plac¬ 
ing a piece behind the rent, and a thin bit of gutta¬ 
percha, like gold-beater’s skin, between it and the 
cloth of the garment, then when a hot iron is passed 
over the surface the gutta-percha dissolves into an 
adhesive substance gumming the two pieces together, 
and not a thread is used.” 

“No good. No good at all. Cloth is cloth, and 
this is worn to the last fibre. ” 

“I only want it to hold out the winter. I am old. 
I may not live to see another year. It would be a 
pity to buy a new greatcoat when I may not be able 
to enjoy it many years. I do not care to squander 
money, and it would be squandering—should I not 
live long to wear the coat.” 

“ No,” said Dawkins shortly : “dispose of it to the 
ragman. I won’t have anything to do with it. You 
must have a new greatcoat.” 

“ A new greatcoat 1 ” 

“Yes, a new one.” 

“ Humph ! a greatcoat costs money.” 

“Of course. Greatcoats are not given away.” 

“They cost a great deal of money.” 


MAJOR CORNELIUS, 


229 

‘‘To be sure, a great deal/' On Mondays Mr. 
Dawkins loved to put matters in a harsh light before 
his customers, to stagger and throw them back into 
attitudes of despair before the mighty expense in 
which clothing would involve them. He looked 
complacently at the major, and drank in his misery. 

“Suppose now," said Major Cornelius, nervously, 
“ I was to—that is—but really—I doubt." 

“ Do you mean, what would be the cost of a new 
greatcoat.?" 

“ Well—yes." 

“That would depend on the quality of the cloth." 

“I should not need the best and finest material, it 
would be unnecessary for an old man. One that 
would last my day would suffice. I should not wish 
to'plunge into lavish expenditure.” 

“ About four guineas." 

“ Four guineas !—Lord bless me !—did you say four 
guineas ?" 

“ Not one penny less." 

“ Four guineas ! Good heavens ! Where am I 
—that is-" 

“You must have substantial broadcloth—none of 
your shoddy, one quarter stable, the rest devil’s dust, 
that goes glossy at the seams and elbows in six 
months. Waste of money getting that. Not fit for 
a gentleman. Always looks shabby." 

“Mr. Dawkins," exclaimed the major, and the 
beads of sweat came out upon his brow, “I entreat 
you to apply yourself to my old coat, and see if you 
cannot make it last out this winter. We are now at 
the close of January. There are only two more 
months of really cold weather before us. Make the 



MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


230 

coat last over them. During the spring and summer 
when there is rain I will not go out. Before next 
winter I shall have had time to think about a new 
greatcoat. This comes on me so suddenly, so be- 
wilderingly, that—that ” 

“ Impossible. I don't choose to throw time and 
thread away.” 

Major Cornelius heaved a deep sigh, took the de¬ 
spised greatcoat, threw it over his arm, and left the 
tailor's shop and lane. He went along like a sleep¬ 
walker, purposeless, anywhere. 

“What a predicament!” said he to himself; “I 
could not have believed it had I been told that the 
grand old coat was to serve me no more. Poor old 
thing ! it was with me in my better days. My brother 
—my poor, dear, misguided brother!—how often 
has his hand leaned on this right sleeve. So, so! 
breaking down together, the old heart, the old confi¬ 
dence in life, the old coat, and the old head. O my 
brother, my brother I If I could only hear from you, 
or of you again, that you were living as a man of 
honour ought to live, and striving to redeem the past, 
and to repay debts—I could die happy.” 

As he thus walked, dreaming and despondent, he 
took the wrong road, and instead of coming home 
found himself on Vauxhall Bridge. He was nearly 
run over by a cab, and he ran against a policeman. 
He trod in a bed of mud swept to the side of the 
road, and splashed himself to his knees. When he 
found himself on the bridge, then he woke to the 
fact that he had strayed. Then, all at once, a cheer¬ 
ing thought flashed upon him, and he held up his 
head. “To be sure ! ” he said, “now I remember. 



MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


231 

the young fellows often told me never to go near 
Dawkins on a Monday ; I will go to him on Satur¬ 
day, and offer him a little bottle of best brandy—that 
will warm the cockles of his heart, and dispose him 
to make the most of my old coat. It may not be 
quite the right thing to make use of his failing for 
my own ends, but it cannot be helped; I cannot pos¬ 
sibly purchase a new greatcoat. Four guineas are— 
well—four guineas.” Encouraged by this hope, the 
old man bought a bottle of excellent Cognac, put it 
under his greatcoat, and on Saturday revisited the 
tailor. 

“ How do you do, Mr. Dawkins ? Better than on 
Monday } ” 

“Middling, major, only middling.” 

Then the old gentleman produced the bottle. 

“Look here, Mr. Dawkins, I’ve brought you some 
real grand old Cognac. I pray you to accept it of 
me. 

The tailor was delighted, his face lit up. He was 
profuse in his thanks. But the moment the crafty 
major approached the subject of the greatcoat, Mr. 
Dawkins’s face fell, and he said—“No, it is of no 
use ! You must have a new greatcoat. ” 

“It is not really .possible-? ” 

“Absolutely impossible. Now, look here, major. 
For you I will bait a point, and make the greatcoat 
for three-pound-ten. That is my lowest figure. Leave 
it to me. I will give you good cloth and good cut 
and good needlework. Three-pun-ten.” 

Major Cornelius again left the tailor’s. 

He had little heart to finish his Reminiscences. 
Finish them, however, he did under much provoc^- 


232 MAJOR CORNELIUS. 

tion from us. We sat in conclave over them, and 
suggested touches here and there ; some were ac¬ 
cepted by general acclamation, others rejected. Rob¬ 
bins wanted to trim one or two of the anecdotes and 
give them additional point; but the old man would 
allow of no improvement at the expense of truth. 
We greatly wanted him to corroborate or contradict 
the famous story of the “ Up, Guards, and at them ! ” 
as some were disposed to relegate these words to the 
limbo of mythical mots^ but he had been in another 
part of the field from Lord Wellington, and was not 
in a position to pass an opinion on the authenticity 
of the memorable order. 

I, as a good scribe, wrote out a clean copy of the 
Recollections, and the MS. was sent to one of the 
magazines. It was accepted. 

“ I wonder what I shall receive for it?’^ he said. 

“I dare say four guineas,'" said Robbins. 

“ That is about the figure,"’ said another. 

Now, some thirty years ago, it was the way with 
certain magazines —-1 do not say all—to keep a MS. 
some three or four months, then to print it, and to 
pay for it perhaps three months later, so that six 
'months elapsed between the acceptance of a short 
article and payment for it. Some magazines kept 
MS. still longer, and paid for it still more reluctantly, 
and these magazines in good repute. Others never 
paid at all. I dare say things are altered now in this 
department as in many others ; but such was the case. 
Major Cornelius knew nothing of this, nor did we, all 
as inexperienced as himself. We supposed that his 
Reminiscences would be out in a week, and paid for 
at once. 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


We were all so certain that, as the MS. was ac¬ 
cepted, it would be paid for, and so certain, also, 
that the major would receive no sum less than four 
guineas for it, that he ventured again to the tailor’s 
and ordered the greatcoat, which was promised him 
for three-pound-ten. 

I believe we—that is, all Miss Jones’s boarders, ex¬ 
cept the old lady with the teeth—were as much in- 
tersed in the greatcoat as the old man himself. We 
held our breath when we heard that the coat was 
ordered, we were impatient for it to be fitted, we were 
consumed with eagerness to see it worn. 

First the cloth had to be chosen, and the colour 
decided on. Then Major Cornelius had to submit 
to the ignominy of being measured. At last the day 
dawned on which he was to be fitted. He went with 
trembling heart to the house of Dawkins, and had to 
put his arms through two holes in something which 
was supposed to be the coat, but which was a mere 
tabard of bits of cloth stitched together, with long 
stitches of an inch each—of white cotton. Why 
white cotton is always used for the preliminary stitch¬ 
ing together, I should like to know. Mr. Dawkins 
went round the major several times, with a bit of 
flesh-colored chalk between his lips, and grunted, and 
raised and depressed his eyebrows, and made chalk 
sweeps with the thing that looked like pink soap, 
especially under the arms, which tailors never, as far 
as my experience reaches, cut right at first, and allow 
for sufficiently. Then he made pink lines down the 
major’s back. Then he caught him by the lappets 
and gave him a tug and jerk towards him, and finally 
dismissed him with a ‘ ‘ That’ll do. ” 


234 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


At last the greatcoat arrived, brought by Mr. Daw¬ 
kins himself. He brought it in the evening, when we 
were all at home, except Robbins, who was at the 
theatre. We sat round the room and saw the garment 
put on, expressing our delight in low murmurs and 
sudden ejaculations. Mr. Dawkins was proud of his 
performance. The major stood in the middle of the 
room ; the table was thrust aside that all might see. 
Mr. Dawkins pulled the tail down with a jerk ; then 
he buttoned the coat across the chest ; then he made 
the major raise and depress his arms, like a cock flap¬ 
ping his wings. It fitted to perfection. It was fault¬ 
less. The tailor drew back and looked at it, with his 
head on one side; then he turned his head the other 
way ; then he walked round the major. No—nothing 
needed rectification. Then he looked at us all, one 
after another, seeking commendation. He received 
it. Perfection is not often encountered in life ; but 
that coat was perfection. 

“You will find the bill in the pocket, sir,” said Mr. 
Dawkins. “After three months, five per cent.” 

When Mr. Dawkins was gone, then all restraint on 
our enthusiasm was removed; we almost danced 
round the major; our expressions of admiration were 
lavish, and, I must admit, extravagant. The old man 
smiled, and bore a little banter, mixed with the con¬ 
gratulations, with great good humour. His pleasant 
face was lighted with a smile, and a little—just a little 
—pride. He was conscious in his heart, he felt in 
every fibre of his system, that he looke4 well in the 
new greatcoat. 

“ Is it warm ? ” asked one. 

Warm ! It sends a glow through nie^” he replied, 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


235 

‘‘Now, my dear friends, I will confide something’ to 
you. I am going out to dinner to-night to my old 
friend and fellow-soldier, Sir Archibald Busby. The 
tailor has been very good ; he has kept his word, and 
given me the greatcoat to go in. He promised it for 
to-day, and, relying on his promise, I accepted the 
invitation. I could not go in the old greatcoat; it 
was inconveniently thin, and hardly respectable.” 

Going to dine with General Sir Archibald Busby, 
K.C.B. ! We all rose in our own estimation, because 
we ate at the same table, and slept under the same 
roof, and warmed our shins at the same fire with one 
who was invited to dine with that distinguished 
soldier. Sir Archibald Busby—a K.C.B. also ! How 
we would talk to our relatives and acquaintances of 
our friend Cornelius, who dined with Sir Archibald 
and Lady Busby ! We must positively see the major 
in his dress coat, and help him on with his greatcoat 
when he went forth. 

It was time for him to dress, so he went upstairs. 
One of us expedited the universal drudge with shav¬ 
ing water, another took all the loose hairs out of the 
general clothes-brush, a third went down into the 
boot-hole to make sure that the old gentlemen's boots 
were brushed up brilliant as patent leather. 

He came down at last, looking very bright, and 
fresh, and delightful. The curl on his temple was 
turned with consummate art. His dress suit was 
without a speck. It had not been worn for several 
years, His collars were very erect, and white, and 
military-looking. We hovered about him in the 
passage. The old lady on the first floor came out 
upon the landing and glowered over the banisters, 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


236 

and nearly dropped her teeth out of her jaws. Miss 
Jones rose to the surface from downstairs; the maid- 
of-all-work, with her nose blackened and polished, 
looked on in amazement and far-off adoration. 

“What time may we expect you home, major?” 
asked Miss Jones. 

“About twelve or half past. I shall not be late.” 

“ Mary Jemima shall sit up,” said Miss Jones. ' 

“ Oh, no ! We will all sit up. We can’t sleep till 
we have seen the major return from his dinner. Oh, 
Major Cornelius! what ravages you will commit this 
evening on the hearts of the ladies ! You are per¬ 
fectly irresistible. If only they could see you in the 
greatcoat! ” 

He laughed ; then three of us rushed and knocked 
our heads together in our eagerness to help him into 
the new greatcoat. When we had encased him, and 
buttoned him in, we made him turn round under the 
gaslight. 

“ Don’t you feel tempted to kiss him, Miss Jones? ” 
asked one of the youngsters. 

“ For shame ! Oh, fie ! ” Then Miss Jones went 
down, down the kitchen stairs with a blush on her 
face; and the maid-of-all-work went off into convul¬ 
sive giggles. 

“ Good-evening, sir ! ” we called, as he went to the 
door. “ We shall all sit up for you ; and may you 
well enjoy yourself.” 

As he had his hand on the door the postman’s rap 
came loud, and made the old man draw back with a 
start. However, he had the door open, and had faced 
the postman before the letter was put in the box. 

“For you, sir.” 


MAJOR CORNELIUS, 


237 


“All rigfht, thank you." He had no time to look 
at the letter then ; he slipped it into his greatcoat 
pocket, and. went forth. 


We clubbed together for a bottle of British brandy 
we heaped up the fire with what remained of coals 
in the box, aft or Miss Jones was gone. We got the 
“general” Jemima to supply us with hot water and 
tumblers. We persuaded Miss Jones to let us have a 
bowl full of sugar, to be charged in our bills. We 
sat up and discussed the major. We were so pleased 
that the dear old man had gone out; it would brighten 
his life. He would laugh and tell his stories, and 
recall old reminiscences with his fellow-veterans; he 
would associate once more with those in his own 
rank of life. We did not say aloud, but we felt, that 
he belonged to an order different from ourselves. We 
were jolly fellows, good fellows, no nonsense about 
us, and all that; but we had not his polish of mind 
and manner, that indescribable something which 
forms an invisible yet impassable barrier between tlie 
classes in life. 

Twelve o’clock ! He promised to be home by mid¬ 
night, or shortly after, and the major was punctual. 
At twelve-twenty we heard his key in the door, but 
he seemed unable to open it. One of us went into 
the passage to unlatch. Two or three of us stood up 
and filled the doorway of the sitting-room. 

“ The old gentleman has taken so much port that 
he can’t hit the keyhole. Wicked old major ! ’’ said 
one. 

But, when the door opened, and we saw him in the 


238 MAJOR CORNELIUS. 

glare from the hall-light, the rising joke died a way- 
on our lips. 

He arrived in his dress suit, without the greatcoat. 

“ Good gracious, major ! Why ! what is the mean¬ 
ing of this } Where is the greatcoat 1 ’’ 

He came in, looking very white and depressed, the 
curl over his forehead out of twist, his collar limp, his 
shoulders stooping. He walked more lamely than 
usual. We made him come into the warm room. 
His hands were like ice. We forced him to take 
some spirit and water. We tried to rouse him. It 
was in vain. He looked utterly crushed. 

“ What is the matter, sir What has happened ?” 

After a while we learned what had occurred. The 
evening had passed very pleasantly ; never more so. 
When he left the drawing-room, he descended to the 
hall and asked for his greatcoat. It was lost. It was 
nowhere hanging up. It had not fallen behind a 
bench. It was not lying across a chair. Then the 
porter said he was very much afraid that some rascal, 
taking advantage of the door being open upon the ar¬ 
rival of a guest, had slipped into the hall unobserved, 
and had walked off with the newest and best of the 
greatcoats. Thus was the disappearance accounted 
for. It could be accounted for on no other hypothesis. 

“ Shall we lend you one of Sir Archibald’s to go 
home in t ” asked the servant. 

“ No, thank you.” 

So the major had walked home in his dress suit, 
without his new greatcoat. That was lost—lost for 
ever. There was not the smallest prospect of its 
being recovered. The poor old man was utterly cast 
down. Without the greatcoat he could no longer 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


239 

walk abroad respectably. He sat in the arm-chair, 
with his head down and his hands shaking. We did 
our best to encourage him ; but what could we prom¬ 
ise .? He could not possibly raise the money for a 
new greatcoat. Besides, this one, now lost, was unpaid 
for. He would not take more than a little drop of 
brandy and water. He could not look before him. 
The future was not to be faced without a greatcoat. 
Presently he stood up and lit his candle ; he would 
go to bed. He was tired; perhaps to-morrow he 
would be better. 

We squeezed his hand, and sat speechless, listening 
to his foot as he went upstairs. He dragged his lame 
leg wearily after him. 

‘‘Poor old chap ! said I; “he seems done for 
completely.'^ 

Next morning we were all assembled at breakfast 
—that is, all but the major—when a rap came at the 
front door and a ring at the bell. Jemima answered. 
A moment after she came in with the greatcoat—yes, 
the identical greatcoat over her arm. Sir Archibald's 
valet had brought it. He had seen it, with the other, 
in the hall, had believed it to belong to a gentleman 
staying in the house, and, to avoid confusion, had 
removed it to the library. The mistake had only 
been found out when all the guests were gone, and 
the servant had come over with the greatcoat the first 
thing in the morning. 

I ran upstairs, to rouse the major with the joyful 
news. I knocked at his door, but received no answer. 
I opened it and looked in. I saw the old man on his 
knees by his bedside. He was saying his prayers. 
I would not disturb him, so drew back. He was a 


240 


MAJOR CORNELIUS. 


long time over these same prayers. I looked in again. 
He had not stirred. Then, with a start, I saw that 
the bed had not been slept in, and the major was in 
his dress suit. I went up to him and touched him. 

He was dead. 

The loss of the greatcoat had been the last disap¬ 
pointment he could bear. The brave old heart had 
given up the battle, and had stopped beating. 

When afterwards the greatcoat pockets were 
searched, there were found in them two letters. One 
was the bill for the coat ; the other bore an American 
stamp. It was from his brother—a penitent letter; 
he was now doing well, and he enclosed to Major 
Cornelius a draft for a hundred pounds. The letter 
had not been opened. 


WANTED: A READER. 


I. 

Monday, April i. 

Extract from the “ Times” April i, i88—. 

Wanted : a Reader ; fluent, cultured, with good 
organ. Apply personally (when terms can be 
arranged) : M. and N., 90 Red Lion Square, W. C.” 

Extract from the ^ Matthew Welsford, Esq., 

of Red Lion Square. 

April I, 188 — .—I and my brother Nicolas (I say “ I 
and Nicolas,” and not “ Nicolas and I,” because I am 
the elder by two years and five months) have adver¬ 
tised for a Reader. My throat will not allow of my 
reading aloud to him. I suffer from chronic bronchitis, 
the result of cursed inaction here in rooms in town. 
To a man accustomed all his life to open air, riding 
after the hounds, taking a five-barred gate whenever 
he met it, braving all weathers—it is enough to break 
down his constitution to be mewed up in London 
16 



242 


WANTED: A EE A DEE. 


chambers. However, my hunting days are over for 
ever. 1 am in the sere and yellow leaf, aged sixty- 
seven, an old bachelor. Nicolas also is an old 
bachelor, failing, fast failing—he wouldn’t have taken 
so enthusiastically to archaeology, till his mind is be¬ 
sotted, unless he were collapsing mentally. What a 
farce it is his setting up a simulated enthusiasm for 
antiquities. Why, I don’t believe he can read the 
Greek alphabet, and his Latin is as rusty as my 
throat. ^ 

Ever since the death of our father, Laurence Wels- 
ford. Esq., J.P. and D.L., and squire and lord of the 
manor of Puddlecombe, in Somerset, have I and Nic¬ 
olas been banished from the country, its fresh joys 
and associations and salubrious pursuits. Our elder 
brother, Laurence, married when he was aged forty- 
nine—I suppose it was right that he should—though, 
for the life of me, I cannot see why any man should 
sacrifice his independence, pleasure, elasticity, for 
the sake of a woman. Still, he was the elder brother, 
and land has its claims, and exacts of a man who 
owns it to marry and be the father of a son to inherit 
the acres after him. No doubt Laurence II. was 
right. I can only thank Providence I was not the 
eldest son. In course of time Laurence III. appeared, 
and then Laurence II., having done his duty to the 
land, died. 

When Laurence II. (our brother) came to the prop¬ 
erty, I and Nicolas had to leave—that is just thirty- 
five years ago—and then we took chambers in town ; 
these same chambers we now occupy, the first floor 
of No. 90 Red Lion Square. Ever since then—for 
these thirty-five years—I have had chronic bronchitis. 


WANTED: A READER. 


243 

On the death of Laurence II. I should have liked 
much to have gone back to Puddlecombe, and re¬ 
sumed my hunting; but it was not manageable. Lau¬ 
rence 11 . behaved badly by us (me and Nicolas). 
Instead of constituting us guardians of and trustees 
for his son, Laurence III., as he ought to have done, 
he left the boy entirely under the control and man¬ 
agement of his mother. It was a slight passed upon 
us, the boy’s bachelor uncles, and it was bad for the 
boy, for what can a woman know of the way in 
which a youth should be reared.? However, I for¬ 
give my brother Laurence ; let bygones be bygones. 
If a man will marry, he puts himself in as complete 
slavery as did Samson when he laid his head on the 
lap of Delilah. He no longer has a head of his own, 
a heart of his own, a will of his own. I suppose 
women are necessary in the world. I have sufficient 
belief in Providence to be sure that if they were not 
useful in some way they would not have been created. 
I believe, also, that mosquitoes, and rattlesnakes, 
and Terra del Fuego have their beneficent purposes, 
but I fail to see them. 

I have no doubt that, from her own point of view, 
Jane—that is, the widow of Laurence IL, and mother 
of Laurence HI.—was right in letting Puddlecombe 
House, with the shooting, for twenty-one years. It 
would have been expensive to keep up the house, and 
she desired to be with her son whilst he went through 
his education. Still, it was bad taste. For twenty- 
one years it has debarred me from going into the 
country in the hunting season and having a run after 
the hounds. In other words Jane confirmed my 
bronchitis as a chronic complaint. 


344 


WANTED: A DEADER. 


I and Nicolas are fairly comfortable in our cham¬ 
bers. We have the first floor. Each of us has his 
own bedroom, and we have sitting-room -and dining¬ 
room in common. When I say “in common/’ I 
mean that we have our meals together in the latter, 
and sit and lounge together in the former ; but as to 
the arrangement and ornamentation of the rooms, 
each exercises his own taste and stamps his own 
individuality on them severally. Mine is the parlour ; 
his the dining-room. The walls of the former are 
adorned with hunting scenes and oil portraits of 
horses ; over the doors are hung my whips and spurs, 
and between the pictures are foxes’ heads and brushes ; 
and the antlers of red deer rise above the paintings. 

As for the dining-room—Nicolas has converted it 
into a library, and lined the sides with bookcases that 
contain the transactions of various antiquarian, and 
old dust, and rag, and bone, and bottle societies. I 
have no patience with Nicolas ! He set up to be an 
antiquary! Why, there are a lot of old mounds on 
the down in our Parish—tumuli, I believe he calls 
them—and he never once attempted to open them, 
when we were at Puddlecombe thirty-five years ago. 
I don’t believe a word about Nicolas’s weak eyes, 
which incapacitate him from reading, and necessitate 
our advertising for a reader. I believe he has donned 
the blue spectacles simply and solely to give himself 
a musty, old, archaeological, palaeolithic air. 

Extract from the Diary of Nicolas Welsford, Esq., 
F.R.S., FR.A.S., FS.A., FR.N.S., &^c., 6 fc. 

April I, 188 —.—The oculist has strictly forbidden 
my reading much, and what can be a more terrible 


WANTED: A READER. 


245 

privation to a man of letters than to be robbed of his 
books ? Matthew and I have decided to hire a reader 
between us. I do hope he will not insist on The Field 
being gone through from title to colophon. I want 
The Antiquary. What a farce it is for Matthew to 
profess such enthusiasm about sport. Why, he has 
not bestridden a horse these thirty-five years, and I 
know what his sportmanship was like before that. I 
do not believe he went half-a-dozen times out in the 
season. He was afraid to go out in the east wind 
lest he should get hoarse, and afraid to go out in a 
west wind lest he should get wet; and he always pre¬ 
tended the reason was that there would be no sport; 
for the scent would not lie in a frost, and would be 
washed away by rain. Matthew is, and always, was, 
a humbug. He never took a hedge, much less a gate, 
in his life. As for the foxes’ heads and brushes in his 
room, he bought them all in Wardour Street; I know 
he did. He never once deserved one or other, as he 
never was elsewhere in the field than last. If there 
be one thing I cannot abide, it is false pretense. Let 
a man not set himself up to be other than he is. 
Matthew has completely deluded himself into the 
conviction that he is an old weather-beaten pink. I 
have seen him cry over “Old John Peel”—what a 
humbug he is ! He makes me quite angry. 

I look back to our life at the old home with the 
bitterest regret. On Puddle Down are a range of 
barrows—five in all if I remember right. I never 
thought of exploring them when I was at Puddle- 
combe, thirty-five years ago. Now, what chance is 
there of my ever being able to appear as the author 
of a paper in any archaeological magazine.? There 


246 


WANTED: A EE A DEE. 


are no mounds in London, but heaps of rubbish shot 
by dustmen. The great opportunity of immortalising 
my name is gone from me. 

1 don’t believe a bit in Matthew’s bronchitis. It is 
simple fancy. He has nothing else to occupy his 
empty mind than his own maladies. Why does he 
not take up some pursuit—as palaeontology, anthro¬ 
pology, or palaeography ? 

% 


II 

Tuesday, April 2. 

From the diary of Matthew Welsford. 

April 2 .—Mrs. Sache attends to us. She lives 
somewhere in the areal world, below the level of the 
ground floor and the doorsteps, and scraper, and mat, 
in the region of the sewers, and gas-pipes, and water- 
pipes, and earthworms, into which, through round 
orifices in the pavement, the coals are poured. I 
have never been down, like Orpheus, into that nether 
world ; unlike him, I have no desire to descend. 
There, however, Mrs. Sache lives and cooks. She 
does our rooms, lights our fires, and makes our coffee, 
grills our chops, devils our kidneys, and cooks our 
dinners. Thence she rises with a duster betimes, and 
also with the food ; thither she descends into the 
dust, and goes down with the scraps to eat them in 
privacy. When we ring the bell, up she pops; when 
we wave the hand, down she drops. Oh, surely, that 
areal world is the ideal region for all women ! Oh, 


WANTED: A TEA DEE. 


247 

would that all women would efface themselves as 
speedily and effectually as Mrs. Sache ! 

The first applicant for our readership arrived punc¬ 
tually at 2 p. M. —tiresomely enough, just as I, on one 
side of the fire, and Nicolas, on the other, had fallen 
into a nap after our lunch. We were roused out of 
it, not in the best of humours. 

The applicant was a tall, ill-built man, with a shock 
of light hair, a pasty face, a light moustache, a frock- 
coat of diagonal, very glossy at the elbows and white 
at the seams. His boots were big and shapeless. 
He gave his name as Mr. Niederwald. 

“ Will you take a chair ? I said coldly. 

“ You are M.,” said he, looking at me, “ and you, 
saire, are N.,” looking at Nicolas, “and I, my saires, 
am ze Reader. 

“You are a foreigner ? ” asked Nicolas: 

“ Saire ! I am aScherman, a native of Hann-over. 
We did give you kings. Schorge ze First, Schorge 
ze Zecond, Schorge ze Dirty, Schorge ze Forty, Wil¬ 
helm ze Forty, and ze present Queen Victoria—all 
Scherman.” 

‘ ‘ But, ” said I, ‘ ‘ we do not want a reader of German, 
we neither of us understand the language.” 

“ Ah, bah ! I am master of many languages. I 
can read you French and Italian, and Latin and Greek, 
and I know ze Hebrew alphabet.” 

“ But,” said I, hastily, for I saw that Nicolas was 
pricking up, “we doubt your knowledge of the 
English tongue. ” 

“ Well, now ! ”—he spread his chest—“ you have 
haired me. I know ze English speech better zan ze 


WANTED: A TE A DEE. 


248 

English themselves. I do speak her grammatically/* 

‘ ‘ Are you accustomed to horses ? ” I asked. 

“ Ze what? what you did say? ” 

“ Horses,” I replied sternly. “ Can you break in 
a hunter? Can you ride a mustang? Are you able 
to take a hurdle ? ” 

“What you mean? Ride! Me—ride horses?” 
“ Yes.” 

He shook his head. “ Me—me—nimmer, nimmer 1 
Zey would kick me off and to little pieces.” 

“ Then,” said I, rising, “I am heartily sorry there 
has been a mutual misunderstanding. The advertise¬ 
ment in the Tmies was a rider, not a reader. But, 

sir, if you should feel inclined for a circus-” 

“ Saire 1 I am a man of letters and learning, do 
you insult me ? ” 

“ Not at all. Good-afternoon.” 

He had scarcely left the room when another appli¬ 
cant appeared. This was a hard-featured, elderly— 
well, lady she would call herself, I prefer to call her 
person. She made a curtsy as she entered. 

“ Hope I find you well, gentlemen,” she said. 
“ Well now, this is satisfactory. When 1 saw your 
adver—tisement in the Times, says I to myself, ‘ Susan, 
it be two old ladies, and their names are respectively 
Mary and Nora ; ’ and, gents both, I did hesitate, I 
confess it, coming to offer myself to ladies, for ladies 
are so mighty exacting and particular, specially when 
it comes to money, I always find that ladies are harder 
to deal with than gentlemen ; the latter are always so 
amiable and obliging and yielding, but as my dear 
ma’ said to me, ‘ Susan, it’s the way you have with 
’em, no gentleman can resist you. You seem to 



WANTED: A READER. 


249 


twist ’em, round your finger.’ You’ll excuse me say¬ 
ing so, Gents M. and N., it was only mother’s fun, 
and I hope I’m taking no liberty in repeating her 
sportive remarks. Now I should like, if I’m not mak¬ 
ing too bold, to know which of you gents is M., and 
which is N., and also, if you’ll not go for to consider 
me loo forward, I should like to know whether M. 
stands for Maximilian, or Marmaduke, or Montague 
or-” 

“ Madame,” said I. 

‘ ‘ I’m not married, sir, ” fluttered the person. ‘ ‘ Only 
Miss.” 

“Miss,” said I, “you must have misread our ad¬ 
vertisement. We desired a Reader, not a Talker.'" 

From the Diary (^/Nicolas Welsford. 

April 2 .—It really is trying to have to think and 
act for two persons. My brother Matthew makes 
great fuss about his seniority, but when it comes to 
doing anything that is unpleasant, with exercise of 
responsibility, he leaves all to me. I must be his 
monkey to snatch the chestnuts from the fire for him. 

We have had three applicants to-day for our vacant 
office of reader. The two first were very undesirable 
persons, a German professor and a vulgar old maid. 
Matthew ought to have seen their unsuitability at a 
glance, and discharged them, but he left that to me. 
I looked towards him, and coughed, and made signs, 
but to no purpose, I had to show them the door. 

The third applicant was a man. He was lame of a 
leg, dressed in a horsey costume. He had only one 
boot, but that was odorous of stable. 



WANTED: A READER. 


250 

“ M. or N., sirs ! ” touching his forelock. 

My brother and I bowed stiffly. 

“Til take a chair, sirs, ’said he. “Had an ac¬ 
cident, lost a leg, or part of one. ” 

“ You’ve surely mistaken your vocation,” said I, 
“ in applying for a readership.” 

“ Not at all, sir ! ” touching his forehead sharply— 
he was jockey in all his movements. “ Do anything 
to earn an honest penny. Jack of all trades, possibly 
master of none. ” Then he burst into an explosion of 
laughter and spray that smelt of gin. 

My blood ran cold. 

“ I beg your pardon,” said I, “ am I to under¬ 
stand-” 

“Right you are, sir ! ”—with a touch of his fore¬ 
lock—“I’m the chap to be your reader. I does a 
little ossling here and again to gents at an emporium 
of ’osses in Theobald’s Road, and odds and ends of 
times I might drop in and pick up some coppers by 
reading. ” 

I began to feel nervous. My brother sat up in his 
chair. He was interested in the man, as having to 
do remotely with sport; so I stepped in quickly 
with— 

“Are you a Greek scholar.?” 

‘ ‘ All I can’t read is Greek to me. ” 

“Very sorry. We wanted the plays of ^Dschylus 
and Euripides read to us m the original tongue.” 

That did for our ostler reader. 



J'VANTED: A READER. 


251 


TIL 

Wednesday, April 3. 

The Diary ^Nicolas Welsford, conitnued. 

April 3 .—We had no more calls yesterday, and to¬ 
day none came till ten minutes to four, just as we 
began to suppose that we should have none for the 
day. 

The door opened, and in came a young girl in 
black, with a small bonnet. Matthew and I were 
sitting over the fire—I, with my back to the door. I 
turned, and saw her standing in the middle of the 
room, with her large grey eyes on us. 

Matthew, as usual, was of no use at all. He looked 
bewildered and disgusted. He hates women, or, 
rather, he despises them ; thinks and speaks of them 
contemptuously. A fit of coughing came over him, 
and he became red in the face, almost purple. 

She waited patiently till his fit was over, and then 
she said to me and him, “ You want a reader.?” 

Matthew signed toward^ me, “My brother has 
weak eyes, and cannot read to himself.” 

I signed towards Matthew. “My brother has a 
constitutional bronchitis, and cannot read aloud.” 

She looked at each of us in turn, and said quietly :— 

“If you will indicate the book, I will read, and 
show you my qualification.” 

I looked across at Matthew, and saw him looking 
at me. What he meant, I cannot say. He made 
faces, and faces are not alphabetical characters. 


252 


ANTED: A READER. 


She took up the Times that lay on the sofa, and 
read us the first leader. 

Then I looked again at Matthew, and he looked a 
me. 

“ What hours, and how many are required.?’' she 
asked. 

“ Two every day is what my brother had deter¬ 
mined on,” said I; that is, if-’’ 

“At half-a-crown an hour,” she said. “Good. 
Morning or afternoon ? ” 

“My brother and I had thought that from half-past 
four till six-thirty would suit us best. We dine at 
seven. ” 

‘ ‘ Good. I will be here every day at half-past four, 
and read till half-past six. If I come, and find you 
out, or indisposed, you pay the same. If I do not 
find myself able to come, I will telegraph,” 

“ I think that—that-” began Matthew, 

“And I—I am of opinion that-” began I. 

“Yes! What?” she asked promptly, looking at 
one, then at the other, with her large, intelligent grey 
eyes. 

“ Merely,” said I, “ my brother will fix what is to 
be read one day, and I v;hat is to be read the other 
day—that is, in the event of our-” 

“ Good,” she said. “ To-morrow shall be the first 
day. The elder of you, gentlemen, will fix the read¬ 
ing for to-morrow. Half-a-crown per hour—half-past 
four to half-past six. Expect me.” She bowed, first 
to Matthew, then to me, and withdrew. 

Matthew seemed throttling, as though a bandage 
had been put suddenly round his neck. I felt be¬ 
wildered, blinded, as though a kerchief had been tied 





WANTED: A READER. 


253 


over my eyes. Matthew and I are slow people ; we 
take long in coming to a decision, we are averse to 
being hurried. This young creature had come in on 
us—and engaged us, instead of our engaging her. 

“Nick,” said Matthew, “telegraph at once, and 
decline her services.” 

“Can't do it. Matt,'' I replied; “ I know neither 
her name nor address.” 

“Very well, have five shillings ready to-morrow • 
pay her off, and send her packing. ” 


IV. 

Thursday, April 4. 

From the Diary of Matthew Welsford. 

Aprils. —Really, my brother Nicolas is insupport¬ 
able. The effrontery of the man is appalling—and 
he an archaeologist. We had arranged mutually that 
the Readeress was to be dismissed after her first ses¬ 
sion of two hours. Nothing of the sort was done, 
and we shall be infested with her again to-morrow. 
I gave Nicolas two half-crowns, and he folded them 
in ah envelope, and put them in a little Japanese tray 
at the edge of the cheffonier near the door, before 
half-past four. I cannot see why it was necessary 
for Nicolas to be so fastidious about the table cover 
that day. What did it matter if one side hung down 
six inches lower than the other.? Also, why did he 
arrange the books on the table, so as to radiate at the 
same angles from the empty flower-vase in the middle? 

All the morning he had one of the chairs turned up 


254 


WANTED: A EE A DEE. 


before the fire in the, to me, most incomprehensible 
position. 

“What is that for ? ” I asked. 

“Matt,’'he replied, “ I have a conscience. That 
chair has not been sat in, except very casually, for 
thirty-five years, and the cushion must be damp, and 
require airing; and as the young lady v^^iH be here 
for two hours occupying it—there is no knowing—it 
might settle on her chest, and bring her to an early 
grave." 

“What does that concern us?" I asked roughly. 
“ We shall never see her again." 

“ How can you—how can you, Matt! " exclaimed 
Nick. “ Really you require humanising.” 

Punctually at half-past four—no, at twenty-five 
minutes past four, to be exact—we heard the bell 
ring, and in another three minutes, Mrs. Sache opened 
the door and announced “ Miss Smith." 

“I beg pardon," said I, “I did not catch your 
name." 

“ My name is Emily Smith," she said. 

She was given a chair in the middle opposite the 
fire, so that she could be warm, and that the light 
from the window might fall on her book. As my 
brother was on one side of the fire and I on the other, 
we could both hear very well whilst she read. 

It was my place to fix the lecture, so I gave her 
that engrossing work “Stonehenge on the Horse” to 
read. She read well, intelligently, in a pleasant flow¬ 
ing style. She minded her periods, attended to her 
stops, but did not throw fire enough into the descrip¬ 
tion of a horse’s ailments. Still, she brought home to 
me a good deal of information that might have 


IVAJVTED: A EE A BEE. 


255 

slipped me had I read it to myself, and I am sorry 
that this will be her last day. 

When the clock struck the half-past six she shut the 
book, rose, bowed. I pointed to the five shillings 
wrapped in paper, and looked at Nicolas, who only 
stared after her like a witless loon, and before I had 
time to say she was not to return, she had taken the 
money, wished us good evening, and was gone. 

I turned angrily on my brother. 

“Nick, said I, “there you are again—lag’g'ing in 
the discharge of a duty.'’ 

“Very fine, talking like that, Matt,” said he ; “you 
have had two hours of detestable trash, all about 
horses’ maladies, which it must have been misery for 
that poor girl to read, and you want to deny me my 
turn to-morrow with Palaeolithic Man.” 

From the Diary Nicolas Welsford. 

April 4 .— Upon my word, my brother borders on 
the savage. During the morning—and again in the' 
afternoon—we talked about the young lady who was 
coming at half-past four to read to us. I happened 
to say that I feared she was in some trouble, because 
she was dressed in mourning, that she had probably 
lost a father or mother. 

“Stuff and fiddlesticks’-ends, ” said Matthew. 
“She is a little actress, perhaps a ballet-dancer. She 
has put on mourning to suit her part; and she will 
act it well. If we had our hours of lecture later she 
would have been unable to attend. Now she has 
just time to reach the green-room to be made up with 
paint and powder.” 

“Oh, Matthew!” I exclaimed. “How can you 


WANTED: A EE A DEE. 


256 

think such a thing. She is so modest and dignified, 
and so completely a lady," 

“Part of the character. Fudge! a lady. Fll find 
out. The demureness is all' assumed, because she 
thinks it*will commend itself to two old fogies like 
us." 

When the young lady arrived, she was announced 
by Mrs. Sache as Miss Smith. 

Then Matthew, looking up rather pertly, asked her 
her full name. She replied that she was called Emily 
Smith. 

Thereupon, Matthew, pointing to the chair, said 
“ Come here, Emily 1 " 

Instantly she turned, went to the door, out upon 
the landing, and called down the stairs after Mrs. 
Sache, “Emily! Emily!" 

Matthew jumped out of his chair as one electrified, 
and ran out after her, and said, “My dear young 
lady ! Good gracious ! What are you doing ? Who 
are you calling ? What do you want ? " 

‘ ‘ I beg your pardon, sir," she answered with per¬ 
fect self-possession, ‘ ‘ I thought you wanted your 
servant, so I was calling her." 

I never saw any one so crestfallen in my life as 
Matthew after this. 

V. 

Friday, April 5. 

The Diary of Nicolas Welsford, continued. 

April 5 .—My brother is very selfish. His chair is 
on the left side of the fireplace, so that he has his 
back to the window. The consequence is that 1 sit 


WANTED: A READER. 


257 


facing the light, and it is I, not he, who suffer from 
weak eyes. I ventured to remonstrate with him 
to-day, but he was crusty and cantankerous. I did 
not ask him to vacate his seat all day-—only for two 
hours, between half-past four and half-past six. He 
consented most reluctantly. 

What can have taken Matthew ! He takes a stroll 
after lunch, and, when he comes in, he throws off his 
coat and puts on a dressing-gown of a sort of Turkey- 
patterned material, dingy and shabby. He has of 
late taken to wear a strip of flannel round his throat. 
But, to-day, as soon as he came in, he removed the 
flannel band, and did not remove his coat. On the 
contrary, I heard him, in his bedroom, brushing a 
few specks of mud off it that had been splashed by a 
passing hansom. Moreover, he brushed his hair, 
having just dipped his brush in his basin or jug ; for 
his hair was smooth—it is usually on end—and curved 
into a curl over his forehead. I distinctly saw drops 
of water on his temples. He had also watered his 
moustache. 

On this occasion it was my turn to nominate the 
reading. I appointed “Professor Dawkins on Cave 
Men. ” I sat in the seat with my back to the window ; 
Matthew opposite me. Between us, facing the fire, 
was Miss Emily Smith, and as I sat, I could see her 
head illumined by the evening light that fell on it, 
golden, through the window. In my other seat I had 
only her silhouette against the light. She has very 
beautiful auburn hair, the purest, richest, ripest auburn 
I ever saw. It really was a beautiful sight to see the 
play of the evening sun on that glorious head of hair. 
Then her face was very pleasant, her cheeks so soft 

17 


ANTED: A READER, 


158 

and smooth, and sweet in texture and color as a rose 
leaf. Her voice was pleasant and musical. She 
read for two hours, I learned from the clock. I really 
believed it was two minutes. Curiously enough, I 
have carried off no distinct impression of Cave Men 
from what she read, but I have a distinct impression 
of the Reader. 

From the Diary of Matthew Welsford. 

April 5 .—If there be one thing more than another 
that affects my bile, it is insolence shown by the 
strong to the weak. If Nicolas were not my brother 
I should kick him. Under the pretence that he suf¬ 
fered from the light striking in his eyes, he almost 
forced me from my arm-chair on the left of the fire¬ 
place to-day, and made me take his chair on the right. 
It is nothing to him, of course—I am only his elder 
brother—that I sat for two hours with my back to 
the draught from the door, striking on the nape of 
my neck, which is the spot of spots for receiving 
impressions of heat and cold. 

It is because the nape of the neck is so sensitive 
that the puggary is worn, to protect it from the burn¬ 
ing sun. Very well, or rather, very ill—I—even I, 
who suffer from bronchitis, am to sit with a column 
of cold air impinging on my nape for two hours, that 
Nicolas may glower like a ghoul at Miss Smith ! I say 
that, if there be one thing more than another which 
stirs up my gall, it is insolence shown by the strong 
to the weak. What is it but insolence in Nicolas to 
sit eating Miss Smith up, so to speak, with his eyes 
(screened though they be behind blue spectacles) 1 


WANTED: A READER. 


259 

I do not know what rubbish he forced her to read, 
but I do know that for two hours he never took his 
eyes off her. If that is not insulting to a respectable 
female, pray inform me what is. I am a man of 
honour and conscience, and I will not allow any im¬ 
pertinence to be offered to a young lady of the high¬ 
est character and most brilliant attainments in my 
apartments. I am the elder brother. I will take my 
seat to-morrow in my own chair, and insist on Nico¬ 
las occupying his own. Then he will see, for two 
entire hours, only a finely-cut dark profile against 
the light, the brow straight, then a delicate little dip, 
and then the most charming outline of a nose con¬ 
ceivable, a little arched at the bridge, and slightly re- 
irousse at the tip. Now and then, when the head is 
turned, the light falls on the nostril, which is chiselled 
very finely. The lips are—but there, enough. 

1 can be satirical if I like. I said to Nicolas with 
a sneer : “It must be very exhausting work to Miss 
Smith, and I should think she would need some 
nourishment to support her under it.” Of course I 
meant his insolent stare, not the reading, though that 
must be exhausting too. Cave men, what pretty girl 
can wax warm over such cold creatures as they ? I 
went on : “ To strengthen her for the task, brother 
Nick, had I not better order Mrs. Sache always to 
bring up the tea whilst she is with us .? ” 

“ Certainly, nothing more proper,” he replied. He 
is so hard as not to feel the withering blast of my 


sarcasm. 


36 o 


WANTED: A READEE, 


VI. 

Saturday, April 6 . 

7%e Diary of Matthew Welsford, continued. 

April 6.—I have been considering that it is hardly 
fair to Miss Smith to ask her to read veterinary or 
doggy books, so I am determined to set her this after¬ 
noon to one of Mr. Surtees’ sporting novels. “ Jor- 
rick’s Jaunts” sounds vulgar; “Plain or Ringlets” 
sounds better, or “Ask Mamma.” We’ll have the 
former. 

I never met with such besotted, piggish obstinacy 
as that of Nicolas. I asked him very politely to 
take his usual place this evening. I pointed to the 
draught through the keyhole as making the chair on 
the right unsuitable for me. He pouted and frowned, 
and said his eyes were bad as well as my throat, and 
he would sit beside me on the left, by bringing his 
chair over to that side. I showed him the absurdity 
of the arrangement. We could not both sit on that 
one side of the fire, or his head would cut off the light 
from Miss Smith’s book. After much argument, and 
almost coming to high words, it was settled that we 
should alternate day by day. When she read my 
books, I would sit on the left ; when she read his 
books, I would go over to the right into the shade- 
no—into the light, that is, face the light but see only 
her silhouette. My brother went out this morning, 
which is unusual with him, and to my surprise pro¬ 
duced some flowers he had bought in Covent Gar¬ 
den Market, which he put in a vase in the middle of 
the table. I have never known him to do this before. 
If it had been old potsherds, or flint arrow-heads, or 


IVAN TED: A EE A DEE. 


261 


dolichokephalous skulls, I should not have been sur¬ 
prised—but lilies of the valley ! Some things I have 
observed in Nicolas’s conduct lately have made me 
anxious about him, not that we have lunacy in our 
family—Heaven forbid I 

From the Diary Nicolas Welsford, 

April 6 .—I cannot make my brother out. I never 
thought he had much brains. I think I perceive 
tokens of softening of the brain, leading to abject im¬ 
becility. lie went out this afternoon, his usual walk, 
as I supposed into the Park, but, instead of that, he 
must have gone to Covent Garden, for he returned 
with a narcissus in his buttonhole. Never in all my 
life have I seen Matthew wear a flower before. If it 
had been a horse-chestnut, or a dog-daisy, it would 
have been different; but—a narcissus !—a narcissus 
poeticus, too ! What is the world coming to.? 

Nor is that all. I am convinced he has been to his 
French coiffeur and had something done to his hair 
and his moustache. Matthew is shy to day, and 
stands with his back to the light to avoid my noticing 
him and making observations on what I see. I am 
positive his hair is, at least, two shades less grey than 
it was yesterday. There is an unwonted sprightli¬ 
ness in his manner that I do not like. It is unwhole¬ 
some. At his age—sixty-seven—giving himself these 
airs ! He is a great deal older than I am; he is a 
man with one foot in the grave, breaking down 
fast. 

Miss Smith came as usual, punctual to the minute. 

I had been down in the morning to the nether regions 
to see Mrs. Sache, and I had told her to be sure and 


262 


WANTED: A READER. 


bring up three cups and tea things, some nice crisp 
biscuits buttered, and some wafers of bread, also 
some cakes at half-past five. I thought that Miss 
Smith must need some refreshment after reading such 
dry nonsense as Matthew would require her to waste 
two hours over. My brother was, however, so far 
reasonable to day as to give Emily—I mean Miss 
Smith—“Plain or Ringlets ”‘to read, instead of a 
technical work. Emily—I mean Miss Smith—was 
scrupulous about the tea ; she looked at her watch, a 
poor little silver affair, and as she took ten minutes 
over her cup and bit of bread and butter, she gave 
us an extra ten minutes of reading after the stroke 
of half-past six. When she rose, she said, “Gentle¬ 
men, to-morrow is Sunday. I shall, of course, not 
be here till Monday.'' Before we could remonstrate, 
Miss Smith was gone. 

VII. 

Sunday, April 7. 

From the Diary of Matthew Welsford. 

April 7 , Sunday. —I detest Sundays. Insufferably 
dull days. 

From the Diary of Nicolas Welsford. 

April 7, Sunday. —What a long day this is ! 

VIII. 

Monday, April 8. 

From the Diary of Nicolas Welsford. 

April 8 , Monday. —Matthew is an arch imposter. I 
don’t believe in his chronic bronchitis. He has left 


WANTED: A EE A DEE. 263 

off his flannel band round his throat. He has left off 
clearing his throat. He has ceased to cough. 

From the Diary Matthew Welsford. 

April 8, Monday .—Nicolas is not to be trusted. I 
shall never believe him again. His weak eyesight is 
simulated." He has left off his blue spectacles. 

IX. 

Tuesday, April 9. 

From the Diary' of Welsford. 

April 9.— I thought yesterday that it was possible 
a young lady might think her two hours heavy if 
devoted to the “Cave Men,” so I changed the book, 
and gave her Milman’s “ Samor ” to read. It is a fine 
poem, and opens as well as enriches the mind. 
“Samor” is identical with Aurelius Ambrosius, the 
great British hero, who was kinsman to King Arthur, 
and was in the slaughter of Calthaeth when the 
flower of the British chivalry was treacherously mur¬ 
dered by the Saxons. The fine Welsh poem, the 
“Gododin,”is believed to have been composed by 
Aneurin when prisoner in the hands of the Saxons 
after this dastardly piece of treachery. I have little 
doubt that Emily’s mind has been trained to consider 
British history as beginning with the Saxons, and that 
she is so steeped in Dr. Freeman’s theory that she 
does not believe in the permanence of the Briton in 
our land, nor regard British history prior to the in¬ 
vasion as trustworthy, nor any source of history 
reliable except the Anglo-Saxon—or, as Dr. Freeman 


264 


WANTED: A READER. ^ 


presumptuously calls it —ihe Chronicle. I hope the 
perusal of “Samor” will kindle Emily's imagination, 
and make her desire to know more of the primitive 
Keltic and praekeltic—Ivernian, as Dr. Rhys calls 
them—inhabitants of our isle. I should be so happy 
to go through a course of prehistoric archaeology with 
her, and the ethnology of the British Isles. I will 
try through ‘ ‘ Samor " to rouse in her an interest in 
these matters, and then I will propose to give her 
every day an hour’s instruction in my library, where 
we shall not be bothered with that old fogrum, 
Matthew. It would be so nice to go over the map 
of Ancient Britain together, and trace the limits of 
the Ordovices, and Iceni, and Brigantes, with our 
fingers and our heads together. I dare say it might 
be managed at half-past two, when Matthew is out 
for his constitutional. I am convinced she is under 
Freeman’s baleful influejice. I feel it quite a duty to 
disabuse her mind of this Saxo-mania. 

I have eyes in my head, though they may at times 
be weak (they are better now), and I can see that 
Emily does not like Matthew so much as me, which 
is only natural, as she and I are so much nearer an 
age. 


X. 

Wednesday, April 10. 

From the Diary q/* Matthew Welsford. 

April 10 , Wednesday .—That tiresome, prosy old idiot 
Nicolas! I never can get one moment in the room 
with little Millie alone, and yet I have questions 


WANTED: A TEA DEE. 


265 

burning on my lips that I want to ask her, but cannot 
do so before that stupid Nick. There he sits in his 
chair opposite me, as if glued into it. What does he 
care for “ Plain or Ringlets ? ” I know that the story 
is utterly without interest for him. Why then does 
he stick in the room whilst it is being read ? He 
might as well go into his library, and take up the 
‘ ‘ Transactions " of his learned Societies and dip his nose 
into them. His eyes are better—I don’t believe they 
ever were bad—so there is no excuse for his hanging 
about the parlour— mjy room—like a fly in November. 

I want to know so much about little Millie. I want 
to know to what part of England she belongs. I 
know she is a lady, her speech is so free from dialect 
and vulgar intonation. I should like to know a good 
deal about her, and I cannot get an opportunity of 
speaking to her privately. She would be frank with 
me ; I have eyes in my head, and I can see she has 
taken a dislike to Nicolas, and leans rather to me— 
which, after all, is natural. My life has been spent 
in the open air, on horseback, “Tally-ho!” which 
has made me hale in body, sound in wind, and with 
a cheery, fresh complexion, whereas Nicolas has 
dwelt among Cave men, and picked among bones 
and dust till he has withered prematurely ; and though 
he may be a few months my younger in years, he is 
immeasurably my senior in appearance and lack of 
vitality. 

I know what I will do. I will not be baulked. I 
must find out all about poor little Millie, whether she 
is an orphan, whence she comes, how I can help her, 
and a thousand other things which my kind heart 
prompts me to learn of her. I will not be baulked 


266 


WANTED: A READER, 


by Nicolas, or anyone else. If he chooses, like an old 
fossil, to stick in the house, I’ll go out and intercept 
Millie as she comes tripping along the pavement of 
Red Lion Square; and Til take with me the key of 
the garden, and insist on her coming in to see the 
crocuses and daffodils there, and we will take a seat 
under a flowering almond, and 1 know her little full 
heart will open to me, and she will confide to me all 
her cares, and sorrows, and ambitions. 

What fun ! Nicolas will be sitting at home at No. 
90 all the while, waiting, waiting, and with his 
sheepish eyes wide, wondering why little golden¬ 
haired, rose-cheeked Millie doesn’t come to read to 
him. 

’Tis a southerly wind and a cloudy sky 
Proclaim it a hunting morning. 

To horse, my brave riders, away we fly, 

Dull sleep from our drowsy heads scorning. 

Tol-rol-de-rol-tiddle-de-rol. J' 

Bright Phaebus the hilis adorning ! 

Then hark ! hark ! forward ! 

Tol-tiddle-de- 

No, I have not got it quite correct. It is thirty-five 
years since I sang it at a hunting dinner. But I can’t 
help singing and laughing at the thought of the faces 
Nicolas will make. 

From the Diary (y* Nicolas Welsford. 

April 10, Wednesday .—Not one chance can I get of 
speaking alone to Emily—my Emily. That old hip¬ 
popotamus, Matthew, blocks my way. 

What a demure, self-possessed little hussy she is! 

We try—Matthew and I—to interrupt the reading 
occasionally for a little talk, either on the weather or 
on the subject she is reading. She waits, with her 


IVANTED: A READER. 


267 

finger in the book, marking the line where she left off, 
till we have done, and says nothing. When we cease, 
she resumes reading. We try to draw her into con¬ 
versation, but she is shy of that. 

“Miss Smith,'' said I, “we should much like to 
know your opinion on what you have been reading.'’ 

“I beg your pardon," she replied, “ I am hired to 
read, not to talk." 

There was some difficulty at first in getting her to 
lay aside her mantle or jacket, or velocipede, or what¬ 
ever be the name given by ladies to the things they 
put on their backs and over their arms when they go 
out. Indeed, we never succeeded with the hat or 
bonnet. (The thing has strings, soT suppose it is a 
bonnet; a hat, I believe has only a bit of elastic ; but 
the thing is of white straw, and has a black riband 
round it, and is tied down under the chin by two 
black ribands that emerge from the aforenamed 
black, circumambient riband, and tie under the dear 
dainty little chin in such a duck of a manner. Now 
I can understand what it is to be a bow ! This is a 
pun, no one will see this, so I make it.) 

She always brings a parasol or umbrella with her. 
Directly she enters the room, up leaps Matthew. I 
rise from my seat the moment I hear her foot on the 
stairs, and we run, literally run to meet her, and 
divest her, the one of the mantle, the other of the um¬ 
brella. She won’t take off the bonnet (or hat, which¬ 
ever it is), but she is obliged to let the mantle go, 
because we keep our rooms very hot, and the umbrella, 
because it never rains or snows in our parlour. Then, 
when we have taken these articles away, we conduct 
.her in the most gallant manner conceivable, never 


368 


WANTED: A DEADER. 


seen elsew*.ere than on the stage and in Caldecott’s 
pictures, to her seat, which is always aired for her by 
the fire all the morning. But—really—I am some¬ 
times obliged to blush for Matthew. I have seen him 
hold and hug her mantilla for the whole two hours of 
the reading. This so shocked me—I felt ashamed at 
his conduct, so like that of one with softening of the 
brain, that next time I received the mantle; then he 
held and hugged the umbrella. 

I am resolved to have a moment’s private conversa¬ 
tion with my poor Emily, and the only way to have 
it is to catch her before she comes here. To-morrow 
I will go out half an hour before the time she is due, 
and look about down Red Lion Square, or Orange 
Street till I see the white straw and black ribbons, when 
I will dart out and run and meet her. I have the key 
of the gardens, and I will insist on her coming into 
them with me. I will go beforehand and wipe down 
the green bench under the almond tree (now in 
flower), as it is generally deep buried under soots. 
Then we will sit there, with our backs to No. 90, and 
I will explain to her my plan of an hour for study to¬ 
gether of Keltic antiquities and ethnology. 

What a joke ! How puzzled that owl of a brother 
of mine will be at her not appearing at the proper 
moment to read “Plain or Ringlets.” How he will 
fume and stamp about the room, and never dream of 
looking out of the window at the garden, where the 
back of the white straw bonnet and the back of my 
silk hat would be visible under the almond tree. 

Had I a heart for falsehood framed, 

I ne’er could injure thee ! 

For something, something, something else, 

Which clean escapeth me ! 


WANTED: A TEA DEE. 269 

I forget the lines ; I have not looked at verses and 
repeated poetry these thirty-five years. 

XI. 

Thursday, April ii. 

77 te Diary Nicolas Welsford, continued. 

April II, Thursday. — Unaccountable fatality. I 
was round the corner of Orange Street at a quarter 
past four, pretending to look at the old interesting 
books exhibited in Mr. Salkeld s window for sale, 
but really with my eyes down the square—square 
it is not, but an attenuated parallelogram. All at 
once, five minutes to the half hour, I saw the flash 
of the white straw. Away I went as fast as I could, 
and came breathlessly upon her, with the garden key 
extended in my hand, when whom should I see be¬ 
hind her, close upon her, but Matthew, also hot with 
running, and also holding out his garden key. 

Emily looked surprised out of her lovely dove-like 
eyes, first at me, then at Matthew. 

“Excuse me,” I stammered, “don’t ring at No. 
90—here is the house-key. Mrs. Sache has rheuma¬ 
tism in her knees.” 

“ Oh ! ” exclaimed Matthew, “ that is the garden 
key, Nicolas. I have hurried home to open the door 
with my key for Miss Smith, because Mrs. Sache has 
the headache, and the sound of the bell is torture to 
her, poor thing. 


270 


WANTED: A EE A DEE, 


XII. 

Friday, April 12. 

LeEer received by Messrs. M. and N. Welsford on 
April 12. 

“April II. 

“ My dear Uncles, —Expect me to drop in on you 
shortly. I am coming up to town on most impor¬ 
tant and pleasant business. I cannot say precisely 
on what day, and by what train ; but I shall ven¬ 
ture to trespass on your wonted hospitality, and ask 
you to let me have a shake-down in your comfort¬ 
able spare bedroom, and take pot-luck at your well- 
furnished table, where I shall do justice to Mrs. 
Saches excellent cookery, and your not less admi¬ 
rable wines. My mother may detain me, but I shall 
come as early as she will let me, next week. 

“I remain, my dear Uncles, M. and N., 

“ Your affectionate Nephew, 

“ Laurence Welsford. 

“To M. and N. Welsford, Esquires, 

90 Red Lion Square.” 

From the Diary Matthew Welsford. 

April 12, Friday .—What a life we who live in town 
are called to live ! We cannot call our houses our 
own. Just received a letter from my nephew Lau¬ 
rence. He is coming up to town, self-invited, to stay 
with us. For how long—three days, three weeks, three 


WANTED: A EE A DEE. 


271 


months—he does not say. Laurence is a fine, manly, 
frank fellow, and we are always glad to see him when 
he pays us a visit—which is entirely and solely when 
it suits his convenience to be in town. We see him 
about once in the twelvemonth for, maybe, a week or 
ten days. Now he is coming to London on business 
—legal, I presume ; and lawyers are so procrastinat¬ 
ing in their work that there is no saying how long 
they may keep him dancing about them, and encum- 
- bering our rooms with his presence. What is to be 
done with him between half-past four and half-past 
six ? We cannot have him here during the Reading, 
and we cannot send little Millie away. I will not 
be deprived of my chapters of Plain or Ringlets ” 
for Laurence, or any other nephew. This is one of 
the most aggravating contretemps I have endured. 
It will not do to have Laurence sitting here and ad¬ 
miring Millie whilst she is reading to us. I’ll persuade 
him to go out for those two hours every day, on the 
plea that we also have business, and must not be 
disturbed. 

How designing and serpentine in his cunning is 
Nicolas. To-day he came in about four o’clock, as if 
hot from a walk. “Oh, Matt,” he exclaimed, “I have 
just heard there is to be a meet of the Four-in-Hand 
at the Marble Arch. It is to be at a quarter to five. 
Jump into a hansom, and spin away. You will be in 
time. I’ve almost run, and given myself palpitations, 
to get here in time to inform you. You are so pas¬ 
sionately addicted to that sort of thing that I knew 
you would be eager. Matt, to be at the meet.” 

“Thank you,” said I, coldly ; “ I think I will not go 
to the Marble Arch just now. I have been out, and 


272 


WANTED: A READER. 


feel disposed to sit by the fire. My thanks to you all 
the same ; but, brother Nick, as I was passing down 
l-olborn, 1 saw in Mr. Westall’s window a copy of 
Fergusson's ‘Primitive Rude Stone Monuments,' 
uncut, marked three shillings and fourpence! Only 
three-and four for that volume so full of research, and 
astounding yet well-considered theory. Run, Nick, 
run with all your legs, and secure the volume. It is 
certain to be snapped up. I saw several archaeological- 
looking men and antiquarian women prowling about 
the window, snuffing at the book. Do go, Nick, you 
may not have such another opportunity.” 

“Thank you,” answered Nicolas, coldly; “I do 
not want the book. Fergusson is—rubbish ! ” 

Now, considering that 1 had taken the trouble to 
look at the work in question, mark its price, and ob¬ 
serve its condition, all for Nicolas, I submit that he 
was rude and wanting in ordinary delicacy and gentle¬ 
manly feeling in not going to Mr. Westall’s and buy¬ 
ing the book. I would have done so if my brother 
had taken this trouble about me, not that I wanted 
the book, but to show him my appreciation of his 
attention. 

“ What a very strong smell of violets there is in the 
room ! ” I remarked. Simultaneously Nicolas said, 
snuffing— 

“ What a very strong scent of violets there is in the 
room ! ” 

“ Is there?” I said drily. 

“ Is there ? ” he replied laconically, v 

Then, without another word, each took his place 
beside the fire. Nicolas was dissatisfied with me be- 


WANTED: A TEA DEE. 


273 

cause I had not snapped at his bait and gone away 
to Marble Arch, and left him alone with Millie. 

Now I could not have done that for more reasons 
than one. I had bought a bunch of purple violets on 
my walk, and intended to offer it to Millie, as a little 
innocent courtesy, could I only get my brother to turn 
his back. By each of our chairs, against the wall, 
on our respective sides of the fireplace, is a small 
folding bracket, on which we can put our glasses or 
books. As 1 took my place m the chair, I slipped my 
bouquet of purple violets behind a slate with a memo¬ 
randa I had on my bracket. Millie appeared as usual, 
and read to us as usual, I forget quite about what. 

As she was about to leave, Nicolas, who, like a 
maniac, had sat all the two hours embracing her fur- 
edged jacket, and stroking the fur with his disengaged 
right hand, as if he were coaxing a cat, started up, 
put his hand behind Dawkins’s “ Cave Men,” which 
was on his shelf, produced a posy of white violets, 
and rushed tumultuously after Milly, nearly upsetting 
himself over a stool we had put for her feet, to invest 
her with her jacket, and present her with the white 
violets. No wonder the room had smelt insufferably, 
when a bunch of violets was hidden away behind a 
book. White violets smell five times as strongly as 
those that are purple. 

At the same time I rose, in a dignified manner, 
with old-fashioned politeness, and stepping easily and 
lightly across the room, presented Millie, first with 
her umbrella, which I had been obliged to hold fast 
during two hours to preserve it from that lunatic Nic¬ 
olas, who might have used it as a poker, and then I 
offered her my inoffensive bouquet of purple violets. 


274 


WAlVTRD: A READER, 


She bowed, and combining the bunches into one, 
accepted them with thanks and departed. 

From the Diary of Nicolas Welsford, 

April 12 , Friday .—No wonder the room to-day was 
almost insupportable with the odour of violets. My 
brother had stowed away a bunch of purple violets 
behind his white notice slate, where the warmth of 
the room extracted its scent, and nearly stifled poor 
Emily whilst she was reading. Purple violets are 
unpleasantly strong, white violets have a subdued and 
delicate fragrance. 

I intend calling in two professional men, eminent 
in matters of cerebral disease, to form a diagnosis of 
my brother’s condition. To-day I could hardly con¬ 
tain my disgust. All the time Emily was reading, he 
sat holding her umbrella with both hands, and rub¬ 
bing first his chin, then his lips gently to and fro upon 
the handle—that she touches. Then, when she rose 
to go, he went to his feet like a rocket, and got her 
umbrella athwart between his legs, which all but sent 
him sprawling on the floor ; whilst I lightly, and with 
the ease of a finished gentleman, handed her the 
mantle she wore out of doors. Then Matthew came 
floundering to the doorway after her, and nearly 
drove the umbrella into my ribs. He persisted in 
following her all the way down stairs, and opening 
the street door for her, and expanding the umbrella 
for her before putting it into her hands, although she 
assured him it was not raining. At the same time he 
pressed a posy of blue violets along with the stick of 
the umbrella into her hand. 

She received it with the utmost reluctance. 


WANTED: A READER. 


275 


XIII. 

Saturday, April 13. 

The Diary (^Nicolas Welsford, continued. 

April 13, Saturday .—What shall we do with our¬ 
selves to-morrow ? How the weeks fly ! Monday no 
sooner is passed, than we come to Saturday again. 
I had to pinch myself this morning to assure myself 
that I was in my senses, when I looked in the almanac 
and saw that to-day was Saturday. From half-past 
SIX on Saturday evening to half-past four on Monday 
evening makes forty-six hours, or two thousand 
seven hundred and sixty minutes. Two thousand 
seven hundred and sixty minutes ! Why, it is a 
lifetime! I really cannot see why we should be 
deprived of all intellectual and moral enlightenment 
for two thousand seven hundred and sixty minutes, 
merely because of a Sunday coming in between 
Saturday and Monday. 

When Emily was about to leave us this evening, I 
ventured to suggest that she should come and read to 
us on Sunday evening. 

“Of course,” I said, “ we would not require you 
to read anything secular, such as Milman’s ‘ Samor.’ ” 

“Or frivolous,” said Matthew, “such as ‘ Plain or 
Ringlets. ’ ” 

“But something serious,” I observed. 

“And edifying,” spoke up Matthew. 

“ Such as ‘"Peep of Day,’” I proposed. 

“ Or the * History of the Robins,’ ” suggested my 
brother. 


tVANTED: A READER, 


*76 

“Gentlemen-” began Emily. 

“Excuse me, Miss Smith,” interrupted I, “you 
might have conscientious scruples against reading on 

the Sabbath for remuneration-” 

" ‘ So come and read for lo-. A searching glance 

from my eyes dried up the insolent expression on 
Matthew’s lips, for it he substituted ‘ ‘ charity. ” 

“Gentlemen,” said Miss Smith—that is, Emily—“I 
am very sorry not to be able to accommodate you in 
this matter. Sunday is my one day that I have to 
devote entirely to my mother. ” She bowed and was 
gone. 


XIV. 

Sunday, April 14. 

From the Diary of Matthew Welsford. 

April 14, Sunday. —Will the day never be over ? A 
beast of a day. The French Directory was right. It 
made the Sunday to be one in ten, not seven. 

From the Diary <?/* Nicolas Welsford. 

April 14, Sunday. —Have lain in bed all day. What 
is the good of Sunday to any man ? I hate it. I 
never could see the point of Sally in our Alley : 

“ Of all the days are in the week, 

I dearly love but one day ; 

And that’s the day that comes betwixt 
A Saturday and Monday.” 

It is opposed to all human experience. I hate it 




WANTED: A READER. 


277 


XV. 

Monday, April 15. 

From the Diary of Matthew Welsford. 

April 1^, Monday (ii a.m.).— I had all yesterday to 
myself, to digest my resolutions, and I am confirmed 
in my intentions. I will make little Millie a present. 
Poor dear patient little soul! here she comes from a 
distance, pays sixpence for her ’bus each way—that 
leaves her, poor little soul, only four shillings as re¬ 
muneration for labours—on alternate days—not second 
to those* of Hercules, in reading the tedious, pedantic 
lines of that prosy Milman. I would not do it for five 
times the sum. I know what an effort it is to use the 
voice for an hour without rest, and Millie has to read 
for two. She must be exhausted and hungry at the 
end. She goes home in a stuffy omnibus, and has a 
meagre supper of American cheese and bread and a 
little table beer. Bah ! can human nature, and female 
beauty and sweetness, be maintained on American 
cheese and table beer ? She is young, and does not 
feel the wear and tear, does not know how much of 
life and elasticity and light the late Dean of St. Paul’s 
is robbing her of by his rhodomontade about ‘ ‘ Samor, 
Lord of the Bright City. ” 

It shall not be. I have a conscience. I have 
noticed how much more worn, how much paler the 
little sweetheart has become of late, and I know it is 
the journey—double daily, and the two hours of 
drudgery over that detestable poem—poem ! I see 
no poetry in it; and then—American cheese, possibly 


WANTED: A READER. 


278 

canister Ramornie beef, and table beer as the ghastly 
termination. It shall not be. In future she shall dine 
with us. A cup of tea and a film of bread and butter 
is not sufficient to sustain nature. 

I will do more. I am determined to present her 
with a mark of my esteem at the brilliant manner in 
which she has read “Plain or Ringlets,” and at the 
self-possession which she has shown in the face of 
Nicolas’s effrontery. She had always known how to 
keep him at a distance, without a word, merely by her 
reserved, lady-like, respect-commanding manner. The 
difficulty will be how to get her to accept the present. 
She is so cautious, wise and distant. I will try what 
I can do in a roundabout way ; feel my ground before 
I take a step. If only I can get Nicolas out of the 
room. 

I have seen a really charming bracelet in a jeweller’s 
window, a gold serpent, with brilliants in the head and 
two rubies for eyes. Surely that will please her. I 
will go out and buy it. 

Thank goodness ! No signs of Laurence yet. 

From the Diary of Nicolas Welsford. 

April 1^, Monday (ii a.m. ).—May I never again 
experience such a day as yesterday. I lay in bed and 
ruminated. My ruminations led to one result. I am 
determined that this sort of thing shall not continue. 
We must try to put ourselves in the places of others, 

I did that yesterday, in spirit I followed Emily. I saw 
her engaged in giving lessons all day as a governess. 

I saw her hurry from one house to another. I felt how 
weary her poor little feet became, how hot and heavy 


WANTED: A TEA DEE. 


279 

her dear little head. I felt her hand, it was burning. 
I traced her in imagination, at mid-day to an eating- 
house, and saw her consume a little chop and some 
chips of potatoes, and sip a cup of coffee, then a 
butterine pat—made of Heaven knows what nastiness 
—and some bread, all porosity and crust. That was 
her dinner. On that, life and brain and nerve was to 
be sustained ! It shall not, it must not be ! I do not 
care what Matthew may say. I will insist on her 
staying every day and dining with us. I have a con¬ 
science, if he has not. 

I will do more. My bowels of compassion are 
moved when I see the Golden Pet labouring for two 
hours through that vulgar, over-strained “Plain or 
Ringlets. ’’ The humour is elephantine, the jokes buf¬ 
foonery, the characters defective. How she must 
hate the two hours over “ Plain or Ringlets ! " How 
she must sigh for the alternate days over the glow¬ 
ing, pure lines of “ Samor ’! I cannot bear to see 
her suffer under “Plain or Ringlets,” and I cannot 
remunerate her too highly for the admirable way in 
which she renders Milman’s immortal poem. 

I have seen that she possesses—poor little heart!— 
only a common silver watch. I will go out and buy 
her a delicate, little, gold, lady’s watch, diamond-set. 
It will be some token of the regard I feel for the way 
in which she keeps my brother at bay. Poor fellow ! 
the softening of the brain with him has been like the 
removal of a balance-wheel from a watch ; all his 
movements are capricious, there is no calculating on 
what he may say or do, but one lives in a constant 
condition of nervous tiptoe expectation of a catas¬ 
trophe. If the malady would only become so pro- 


28 o 


WANTED: A READEE. 


nounced as to justify me in having him sent to a 
private asylum for idiots, I would have him removed 
as speedily as possible, then—ah? well!—then—oh, 
then I 

There will be some little difficulty, 1 anticipate, in 
getting Emily to accept my watch. She is so shy, 
timid, and shrinks from courtesies. I must be cautious, 
and beat about the bush. 

What a blessing that Laurence has not come. 

4.35 p.M.— I post up this evening all the events that 
have taken place under the dates at which they oc¬ 
curred. I purchased the watch in the morning, with 
a gold chain, very pretty, rather costly. I hope little 
Emily will be pleased. 

At 4.30, punctually, Emily was in our room. I flew 
to receive her mantle, and then—instead of depositing 
it anywhere in the sitting-room, with great forethought 
I carried it off, to secrete it elsewhere, and thus make 
Emily my prisoner at leisure. Without her mantle 
she could not go, and I would not let her have it back 
till after dinner. 

In slipping out of the room, I did more, I ran to 
Mrs. Sache and told her to put an extra cover at table. 

When I returned, which I did as quickly as possible, 
I saw that Matthew was agitated. He had been left 
four minutes alone with Emily. I trembled to think 
of what drivelling folly he might have been guilty in 
these four minutes, and I looked tremblingly, and in¬ 
quiringly at sweet Emily’s sweet face. That reas¬ 
sured me, it was placid as ever. Just then my planet 
favoured me. Matthew left the room. I looked 
hastily at the clock on the mantelshelf. It stood at 
4. 35. I had been out secreting the cloak and order- 


WANTED: A READER, 


281 


ing the cover—only for four minutes. Now that 
Matthew was not in the room I seized my opportunity. 

“ Miss Smith,” said I, “t/o let me persuade you to 
take off your bonnet.” 

‘‘Thank you,” she answered, “you must really 
excuse me.” 

“I want your candid opinion. Miss Smith—dear 
Miss Smith,” said I, and I produced the gold watch 
and chain. “What do you think of this? Is it not 
pretty ? Is it not such as a lady would like to wear? 
It is a—a present I have bought for—” I hesitated; 
I saw her draw her lips together, “ for a very dear— 
niece. ” 

“ It is certainly pretty,” she answered. “But look 
at my silver watch. It belonged to my father. 
Though so clumsy, I would not part with it or ex¬ 
change it for the best gold watch. It keeps perfect 
time.” 

At that moment I heard Matthew opening the door. 
I had just time to put the gold watch away before he 
came in. The clock stood at 4.40. He had been out 
of the room only four and a half minutes. 

From the Diary Matthew Welsford. 

April 15, Monday (continued).—At 4.30 p.m., that 
little pearl, Millie Smith, arrived, punctual, as she 
always is, to the minute. I had bought the bracelet 
—rather expensive it was ; but still, if she likes it, 
what of that ? 

Fortune stood me in good stead, for no sooner had 
she come, than my brother Nicolas left the room. I 
seized occasion by the horns. I took her umbrella 
from her pretty, little, gloved hand. 


282 


WANTED: A READER. 


‘‘ Miss Smith/' I said, “ can I persuade you to take 
off your bonnet ? You will be so comfortable with¬ 
out. ” 

‘ ‘ Thank you kindly, ”she said, ‘ ‘ I am so comfortable 
in my bonnet that I cannot be more so without it." 

“Miss Smith,” I said then, with emotion in my 
heart, and a flutter in my voice, “my dear Miss Smith, 
may I ask you frankly to express an opinion } ” I 
produced the bracelet. ‘ ‘ Please to look at this. What 
do you think of it.? Is it not very fanciful and pretty ? 
The sparkling head of brilliants, the fiery ruby eyes ! 
Would not a certain young lady’s arm look well with 
the serpent coiled round it } Would she not like to 
try it on ? It is a present I have bought—I have 
bought—” I saw her draw back and look coldly at 
the ornament, “for—for—a very cherished—niece.” 

“ I daresay it is nice,” she answered, in even tones ; 
“ but, when there is so much jewellery about, a lady is 
likely to eschew wearing anything which may be im¬ 
itated in base materials. As I never go out anywhere 
in the evenings myself, I never wear bracelets. ” 

Just then I heard Nicolas’s steps, and I had only 
barely time to slip the bracelet into my pocket before 
he entered. I looked at the clock. The time was 
4.35. I had, therefore, hardly had five minutes alone 
with Millie. 

I took the occasion of my brother’s entry to step 
out, carrying away her umbrella, which I purposed 
hiding somewhere. She could not leave without her 
umbrella, and I would not restore it to her till after 
dinner. By this innocent trick I hoped to force her 
to partake of our meal with us. 

I called to Mrs. Sache, and told her to lay another 


WANTED: A READER. 


283 

cover at our table. Then I hurried back to the room. 
I was afraid of leaving Nicolas longer with Millie 
alone. In his state of mind there is no knowing what 
act of raving, roaring insanity he might be guilty of. 

When I re-entered the parlour I thought he looked 
flurried, and I glanced with alarm at Millie, but was 
reassured by the unruffled sweetness of her face. 

The clock hand stood at a few seconds off 4.40. I 
had therefore been allowed barely five minutes alone 
with her by that Cerberus of a brother. 

At 5.30 Mrs. Sache brought up tea, and Millie in- 
turrupted her reading. At 5.35 she recommenced. 

At 6.35 she put down the book, closed it, and stood 
up. Then I rose, and stood on the mat with my back 
to the fire. Nicolas also rose, and also stood on the 
mat, directing his back also to the fire. So we two 
brothers stood. We made no offer to invest our young 
friend with mantle and parapluie, as usual. We 
allowed her to look about for them in a perplexed, 
surprised manner, which was really very pretty and 
charming. 

“Why—why—where are my things.? ” she asked. 

“ I have your umbrella,” I said. 

“I have your mantilla,” said Nicolas. 

I turned, and looked at my brother in surprise ; at 
the same moment he turned, and looked interroga¬ 
tively at me. 

“Oh, gentlemen! may I have them.?” she asked, 
so prettily that my resolution almost gave way, and 
Nicolas took a step forward as if inclined to yield. 

But I said firmly, “Miss Smith, you shall have 
your things all in good time. You must positively 
sit down again and dine with us. I hear Mrs. Sache 


284 


WANTED: A READER, 


already laying the table; please take off your bon¬ 
net.’’ 

Then Nicolas said persuasively, “ Miss Smith, you 
must really do us the favour of dining with us. You 
will find us inexorable ; unless .you consent you will 
have to go without your things. Pray take off your 
bonnet.” 

She stood in the prettiest confusion possible, look¬ 
ing pleadingly from one to the other. What a head 
hers must be without the bonnet ? Such a shape! 
Such hair ! I was dying to see it. She shook her 
bonnet reproachfully and sadly. 

“ Thank you, gentlemen. I must go. Be kind, 
gentlemen, and give me my things. ” 

“ No,” said I, hard at heart. 

“ No,” said Nicolas, obdurately; “ no.” 

Ting! Ting! Ting I went the clock. (5.45 P.M.) 

“The quarter,” said 1 . “In another 15 minutes 


“We dine,” said Nicolas. “Now, Miss Smith.” 

A silence. There was something quite pathetic in 
the way in which the poor little head (in its bonnet) 
peered about, here, there, everywhere, after its man¬ 
tle and umbrella. 

I went to the window. 

“It is raining,” I said. 

“Hush!” said Nicolas; “the soup is ascending 
the stairs.” 

It was, however, not the soup. The door was 
thrown open, and in rushed—Laurence. Laurence 
III., our nephew, the last person in the world we— 
that is, I—wanted to see. He looked so fresh, so 
brutally young, so confoundedly handsome—really 



WANTED: A EE A DEE. 285 

Nicolas seemed to shrivel up, like a Rose of Jericho, 
into a dry stick, in his presence. 

“Why, Uncle Matt!” he exclaimed, clasping my 
hand, and working my arm as if I were a pump. 

“Why, Uncle Nick I ” he said shaking my brother 
like a feather bed. “How well, how young, how 
jolly you all seem. And—bless my soul !—Halloa ! 
Emily I You here.? You! How, in the name of 
wonder, my darling I This is a delight—a threefold 
delight and surprise.” 

The ruffian caught her in his arms, lifted her off 
the ground, and deliberately kissed her before our 
naked eyes. 

“Why, Uncles M. and N.,” exclaimed Laurence, 
“ I came up to town after Emily. We have been 
engaged since we were children. Her dead father, 
the rector, was my tutor : after his death, Mrs. Smith 
came up to town with Emily-” 

“And,” said she, interrupting him, “as we were 
left very badly off, I was obliged to do something to 
help out our small means. Seeing the advertisement 
in the Times, I applied, supposing the advertiser was 
an old lady. I was surprised, and perhaps dis¬ 
appointed to find that I was to read to gentlemen ; 
however-” 

Laurence took the thread out of her mouth. “I,” 
he said, “as you know, uncles, have not had a nest 
into which to put my bird, so I have had to wait till 
the term of the lease of Puddlecombe Hall was up. 
My tenants turned out at Lady Day, Now I have 
come to claim Emily, and I hope—we both hope— 
dear uncles, that you will come and visit us there 
this autumn. Then”—to me—“after the hunting 




286 


WANTED: A READER. 


begins, we will not let you depart till the season is 
over; a horse will always be at your disposal. 
And”—to Nicolas—“you know there are several 
British barrows on Puddle Downs crying out to be 
opened and their contents catalogued. There you will 
both, I trust, learn to love your hew niece Emily.” 

“I knew it,” said I. 

“I knew it,” said Nicolas. 

“ I call little Millie to witness,” said I. I drew the 
bracelet from my pocket. “Millie, pet, didn't I say 
this was for my darling niece .? ” I clasped it on her 
wrist. 

“ I call dear Emily to witness,” said Nicolas. He 
produced a gold watch, and threw the chain over her 
head. “Emily, my precious ! didn’t I say this was 
for a valued niece ? ” 

Then Mrs. Sache appeared in the door, and said in 
solemn tones : 

“Dinner is ready.” 

“Lay another place,” I shouted. 

“Lay another place,” called Nicolas. 

“ How many.? ” asked Mrs. Sache. “ I’ve already, 
laid four as ordered. Mr. Matthew said ‘One extra,’ 
Mr. Nicolas said ‘ One extra,’ and with the two mas¬ 
ters, ain’t that four .? ” 

“ That is capital,” said Laurence. “Now, Emily, 
dear, off with your bonnet.” 

And off it came. 


THE END. 




s 


f 


( 



I 


MARGERY OF QUETHER 


AND OTHER STORIES 


BY 

S. BARING-GOULD 

AUTHOR OF 

MEHALAH,” “OLD COUNTRY LIFE,” ETC. 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W LOVELL COMPANY 

150 WORTir ST., COR. MISSION PLACE 


ii '"'-I'' ; t'- 


I»■ 


•<"7 


* / 








t f 


]ivy,'.-'--,.'-#V r^;..: 


-S' 

‘f 


ww^ ■ ■■ 


*7 

k- *.V.* 



V 



f 


» *• 


f) 


^ •< 


■ r, 


^ T i ‘ 

' > ii ‘ r 


«• 


f 

» t 


t 


* v 


•• i 
f «♦♦ Vi fc 


a 

>• . 










t . • . •• . ► 

< • A. . ' 'I 1 

• :-V**' • ^ 

•’•.• ■ r. /.^r 


'V., 

7 







$% 

r. 


« » 


/ > 4 . 


A 

I 


r 


1 • 


# *» 






r 



' ■*. '- 


I"* ♦!• 






A. 




^ 


I 4 


* t • 


; si 


. ^ 4 ' (. 

r-r 


♦ 


v'VH^ 



T ^ 

'.j^; 




s 

.iw 


*\v' 


\ 


^ 


^>V 


i; T'v 


r< 




#v‘ 



.\ 















ICi 


\ 




f 


$ 


I* 

■> 








V 


• V 


> 


$ 


*• • 


f ^ 


4 


i 


i 


t 


k 


0 










































































